Lola
by Carmen's Daughter
Summary: "So, we're agreed then?" he said, gripping my hand tighter. "We'll get married when we grow up?" I nodded. "Yes," I replied, and I wondered if his heart was beating as fast as mine. We were only thirteen. [AU] [ROMIONE] [IN-PROGRESS]
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, settings, lines, and references to canonical elements within the_ Harry Potter _universe belong to JK Rowling and affiliated publishers. In addition, any aspects borrowed from the film canon are property of Warner Bros. This fanfiction exists purely for non-commercial entertainment, and the author is not benefiting from any form of profit. Rated T for language and some non-explicit depictions of implied sexuality and violence in later chapters._

 _ **Lola**_ ◊ Carmen's Daughter

 **Part I — Memories**

* * *

 **Chapter I**

He stands there, sizing me up with his stunningly azure gaze. Naturally, I am inclined to regard Ronald Weasley with a sort of impatient curiosity. This boy—well, _man_ , really—towering over me at his full height of six foot two, with muscled limbs and a toned chest built from years playing Muggle sports, as well as tending to heavy-duty garden and yard work with no magic, is somehow the same boy that I met when we were only children; the same boy with the smudge of dirt on the side of his nose; the same boy that I had deemed an immature and insensitive prat on more than one occasion. The impatience, I suppose, originates from a desire to know if he sees me the same way I see him.

Of course, I'm not _completely_ daft, thank you very much. I would have had my "brightest witch of (my) age" title revoked long ago if that was the case. I've seen the way his eyes linger on me whenever we sit across from each other, or how his hand occasionally brushes against my leg when we're close. And, of course, I could never forget the displeasure that clouded his features when he was made aware that Viktor Krum, one of the most famous living Quidditch players, had taken me to the ball. He rationalized it to me as a concern for my well-being, because Viktor was a bit older than me, but even then I could see there was some deep-seeded jealousy behind his behavior. Still, he had become much mellower in recent months, and I couldn't help but wonder if the subtle signs from our earlier adolescence that I had interpreted as "hints" to possible reciprocated feelings were, actually, simply a manifestation of the curiosity and flirtation that was bound to occur between any friends of the opposite sex. At the same time, though, I had _never_ experienced these types of things with Harry ...

"I missed you," he breathes into my hair as he engulfs me in a hug. "I always miss you the second you're gone ... Did you miss me?" he adds with a hint of mischief.

"Of course I did," I manage to croak out, wondering if he has even the slightest idea how the scratchy deepness of his early morning voice affects me. He smells divine: an intoxicating mixture of spearmint toothpaste, aftershave, and the woodsy scent of his gel soap. "I think you've gained another inch over the summer."

Chuckling, he pulls back, resting his large hands on the sides of my arms and squeezing slightly. "Really? I just thought you'd lost one."

"Very funny."

"As always," he smirks. "Come on, I'll take this upstairs for you." He grabs my luggage and effortlessly carries it up the first flight of stairs and into Ginny's bedroom, where I always stay whenever I visit the Burrow. "Ginny's off visiting Dean," Ron grumbles, plopping down on the spare twin bed that I usually occupy. "She'll be back later."

"Ron," I start, taking a seat next to him. "They've been going out for months now. Surely you can't still be uncomfortable with it, right?"

"Of course I can—it's my job, innit? Brothers are supposed to keep an eye on the blokes their sisters are dating. It's a rule."

I sigh, lying back against the mattress and allowing my hair to fan out against the quilted blanket. "Seems like a silly rule to me. Ginny's not a little girl anymore, Ron. It's natural for you to feel protective of her as a big brother, but it's really not your place to stick your nose into her romantic life."

"Humph," Ron grunts. "Fine. I accept that my sister is old enough to date. That doesn't mean I have to like it though."

"Fair enough."

Sighing, he leans back next to me on the bed, and we stare upward in a comfortable silence. Ginny has added several more posters to her room décor since the last time I was here. My eyes are particularly drawn to a poster of the Weird Sisters placed impressively in the dead center of the ceiling with Spello-tape, where the lead singer Myron Wagtail sticks out his tongue in a rather suggestive manner. It didn't always look this way—in fact I could remember when these walls were entirely bare: during my first visit to the Burrow, in the summer of 1993.

* * *

I had been very afraid that I was rudely imposing myself on the Weasleys—the people who, at the time, I barely knew other than through my year-long friendship with Ginny. But, upon hearing from me that my parents were going to be in Spain for the entirety of the summer to participate in a program offered through their office, in which dentists traveled to other parts of the world to shadow other dental practitioners and exchange knowledge on the field, meaning that _I_ would have to spend the holiday with my stuffy Aunt Mildred, Ginny would have absolutely none of it. Despite my protests, she wrote to her mother and by the next morning's mail delivery I had been officially invited to spend the summer at the Burrow. Mr. Weasley reached out to my parents, ensuring them that any friend of their children's was welcome in their home, and assured them that I would have an adequate place to sleep and as much food as I could consume. And, according to the letter my father sent to me, even after they accepted his invitation of my behalf he proceeded to stay at our house for another hour and "dissect" them on every aspect of their Muggle life. "He's a very kind-hearted man," my father remarked. "We were flattered he found us so interesting."

Despite the fact that I would miss my parents very much, I was more than excited at the idea of spending the summer in an entirely new place, and getting to know the people from whom my best friend had come from. Ginny had been a blessing, really, especially considering that our friendship had come about so unexpectedly. It was in the common room that we spoke for the first time: she desperately needed help with her Potions homework and told me that I looked like the only one who was willing to help a first-year. From there we did our homework together every afternoon.

When the end of the school year came, I approached the providers of my summer lodging with the utmost propriety, as my parents had taught me. I helped Mrs. Weasley with the housework whenever she would let me, said "please" and "thank you", and never left so much as a stray hair on the bathroom counter. The Burrow was a massive spectacle, almost overwhelming in its charm. We were on a huge plot of fertile land on the fringe of Ottery St. Catchpole (which in itself looked like a village from a fairy tale), hidden from the Muggle population behind miles of unoccupied fields. The house was several stories tall and was so delightfully peculiar in its structure that I was more than sure it was held up with magic.

Within hours of my arrival, the Weasley household welcomed me as one of their own, so much so that Fred and George wasted no time in making me the subject of their playful teasing. Percy, the eldest sibling to live in the house after the departure of Bill and Charlie, was impressed with my academic achievement during my first two years at Hogwarts and invited me to borrow from his book collection whenever I pleased, resulting in many nights of Ginny and I giggling on the matter in the privacy of her room.

"You liiiikkkeeee Percy," she teased. "I can see it whenever he talks to you. Your eyes light up. You want to kiiiiiisss him."

"I do _not_ ," I insisted. "Your brother is nice, that's all. And he's very ambitious, which is admirable."

The youngest Weasley brother, however, remained a mystery to me for the first week of my stay. He would stare at me whenever we were in the same room, biting his bottom lip and squinting as if I was some algebraic formula he was trying to wrap his head around. I truly felt that he must have thought I didn't notice, because he did it so openly and for such extended periods of time that I swear I could feel his eyes on me even after we went into separate parts of the house. It got so annoying that one day I decided to approach him in the backyard following a hearty lunch of bacon sandwiches to, in short, find out what his problem was.

He was skipping stones by the pond as I approached, and he turned upon hearing the footsteps of my soft-soled flats against the freshly manicured grass.

"Hi," he said, a shadow of grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

"Hi," I replied flatly. "Look, I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh? About what?"

"About you."

He raised his brow curiously. "What about me?"

"About the way you've been looking at me," I stated with a firm tone. "Is there a problem between us?"

"Not at all."

"Then what about the way you've been staring at me? You look at me like I'm an insect or something."

"I have?" He actually dropped the stone he had been holding (it landed with a soft "thump" on the ground below) and looked legitimately embarrassed, his face flushing a red almost as intense as that of his hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was making you uncomfortable. I mean, I _have_ been looking at you, but that's just because, well ..."

"Because what?"

"Well ..." He clasped his hands behind his back and nervously rocked on the balls of his feet. "I suppose I'm sort of ... intrigued by you. That's the right word, right?"

"Intrigued?" My eyelids fluttered in surprise. "Why on earth would you be intrigued by me?"

"Ginny told me you're a Muggle-born," he supplied, his face going all the more redder. "So ... that kind of makes us opposites, in a way. I'm sure she's told you about ... me."

"Oh ... _oh_." I placed the pieces of the puzzle together in a matter of seconds, feeling a sudden wave of embarrassment on my own part. Of course it had come up during the hours Ginny and I spent getting to know one another at Hogwarts: the fact that the youngest male in her household lacked magical abilities, the fact that—in all societal, cultural, semantic, and legal regards to the wizarding world—he was a Squib.

I hadn't thought much about it upon meeting him, especially considering that from my observations he was just as involved in and loved by the family as his magically capable siblings. Even in spite of my knowledge on certain attitudes toward Squibs, I hadn't held the slightest notion that any member of the otherwise pureblooded Weasley family harbored any sort of embarrassment of him—no, that would be utterly preposterous, because the Weasleys were among the nicest people I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Still, that didn't change the fact that Squibs were rare, and the unfortunate reality of anti-Muggle and pureblood supremacist rhetoric still existed in our world, even after the downfall of the man called Lord Voldemort in the great wizarding war that was before our time—rhetoric that even went as far as to claim that Squibs were actually Muggle infiltrators of magical heritage and had no proper place in wizarding society. Being a Muggle-born, that kind of thinking obviously impacted me too, but I had seldom considered the idea of how it must be the other way around, to be born to a magical family but possess no magical abilities yourself.

"I'm very sorry. I hadn't thought about that ..."

"No, you're right. It was rude of me to stare at you like that. Gods, you must think of me as a right creep now, don't you? It's okay, I don't blame you."

"I don't think of you like that. But if you wanted to ask me anything, you should have just asked."

"It's funny," he looked down at his tattered brown shoes, "when you first came I had a million questions to ask you. That's why I was staring at you; I reckon I was trying to figure out how to approach you about it. But now that we're actually talking, I can't think of a single one." He looked back up at me, suppressing a grin. "Funny, isn't it?"

"Your father has already asked me many questions about what it's like to be a Muggle-born. I don't see why you would be afraid to ask me."

He shrugged. "I dunno. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." I took a step forward and picked up the stone he had dropped. "Watch this." Playfully waving it in his face, I firmly planted my feet at the edge of where the pond met the earth and flicked the stone in. It did not skip at all, as I hoped, but instead plopped straight into the water with a loud splash. "Oops."

"You've never skipped stones before, have you?"

I blushed and shook my head. "I didn't think there was much to it."

He snorted. "Figures. You magic folk take everything for granted."

"I do not take things for granted!"

"Sure, whatever you say," he said, an obvious touch of sarcasm sprinkled over his words. "Want me to teach you? There's plenty of other good stones around here that haven't been mercilessly thrown in the water."

"Fine," I chuckled.

"Okay, but first—" he straightened up to his full height—which was several inches above my own—and held out his right hand, "—I want all of this 'me-creepily-staring-at-you-because-I-didn't-know-how-to-talk-to-you' nonsense behind us. So, let's start over. Hi, I'll be your stone-skipping instructor for today."

I took his hand and gave him a firm, friendly shake, noticing how pale his freckled skin was in comparison to my own. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Hermione Granger."

He smiled brightly at me. "It's nice to meet you too, Hermione. I'm Ron Weasley."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

His eyes were blue—quite possibly the bluest eyes I had ever seen and _would_ ever would see in my lifetime. When he smiled at me—even if it wasn't a full-fledged toothy affair, but rather the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth—there was a certain twinkle to his gaze that made my heart skip a beat, and an overall brightening of his features that made one think there was no one on earth he was happier to speak to at that given moment. His impending manhood was already beginning to rear its head as well, for on occasion his voice grew raspy and cracked when we spoke. I saw him blush and pretended not to notice.

His ginger hair fell in silky locks around his face, resting just past his ears with a tousled fringe. He was definitely due for a haircut, but I actually thought the slightly overgrown look suited him. His skin—practically transparent in its paleness, especially when contrasted with my darker vanilla hue—was dusted with cinnamon brown freckles, and in the later years of our teenhood the question of just how many freckles he had on his body would be a constant source of curiosity for me.

He maintained a strange liking for burning his toast but then proceeding to make it soggy by smothering it with butter. He took his breakfast cuppa with two sugars and a splash of milk. He had a bad habit of speaking when his mouth was full.

I found myself watching him more and more in the weeks following our "start over" by the pond, and it was from friendly distances seated on the sofa or from across the dining table that I noted these many observations. The marvelous thing about the condition of our youth was that, overnight, he had went from "one of Ginny's brothers" to "my friend"—there was no ceremony to the matter, nor was there any formal declaration of "we are friends now", it was simply a mutual understanding between the two of us, an unspoken broadening of our boundaries. I fell asleep one Friday night leaning my head against his shoulder after Mrs. Weasley had distributed generous doses of hot chocolate; he gently shook me awake a half hour later with the soft-spoken request to "go to bed, Sleeping Beauty".

Our amicable interactions did not go unnoticed by the rest of the Burrow, I was sure, although it was Ginny who approached me on the matter, her arms crossed and brow furrowed in exaggerated anger.

"I'm mad at you," she declared, her chin held high. "I wanted you here for the holiday to spend time with me—and I leave you alone for two seconds and you go and get all chummy-chummy with my brother." And although she was clearly joking, I _did_ make an effort to spend more traditional "girl time" with her as July warmed into August. During this time, Mr. Weasley was more than happy to allow me to use to use his Muggle landline (how he had magically enhanced it to work without any form of paid service, I did not inquire) to contact my parents.

A particular Tuesday morning in the first week of August found Ron and I in the peculiar situation of being virtually alone in the Burrow. Ginny had left a note stating that she and Mrs. Weasley had Flooed to old Miss Madeleine's, an elderly widowed witch several miles of fields over, to procure some fresh carrots from her garden for the mixed vegetable side dish Mrs. Weasley was preparing for dinner that evening. "You were sleeping very peacefully and I didn't want to wake you," my friend explained in her note. "We'll be back in a few hours. Mum always insists on having tea with the old lady whenever we visit." Fred and George were nowhere to be seen—although I did hear them speaking the night before about "wanting to go see Angelina"—Percy had taken a trip to the Ministry of Magic to check in on the status of his internship application, and Mr. Weasley was in the garage studying his collection of Muggle artefacts.

So, upon finding Ron chewing on a biscuit in the living area, explaining to me that he had pretended to feel ill so as to avoid having to visit that "insufferable old hag" (a choice of words for which I scolded him thoroughly), within minutes we had naturally reduced ourselves to a fit of laughter and joking at whatever random, trivial matter we brought up. After a while, Ron decided to bring more substance to the conversation, and grabbed one of the several family photo albums from the bookshelf, unknowingly commencing to an impromptu show-and-tell in which I was more than compelled to participate.

Out of the pile of things I produced from my trunk and brought back into the living area for our little game, Ron reached out and grabbed my favorite picture of my parents that I usually kept in my Muggle wallet. It was dated May 1975 and was a bit yellowed and torn around the edges. They were standing in front of the Eiffel Tower: my mother's dark hair was much longer that it was now, and my father was also considerably scruffier in his carefree youth.

"Wow, are these your parents?"

"Yeah," I informed him. "About four years before I was born. They always told me taking a trip to Paris together ensured them that they were in love. They got married a year later." Ron examined it with appreciative, twinkling blue eyes, and a smile broke out across his face.

"You look like your mum."

"Really? I always thought I had more of my father's features."

"Nah … well, a little bit, but I see more of her in you … She's pretty." He gingerly handed the picture back to me, and, truthfully, I felt my heart beat a little faster as our hands made contact in the process. He just said I looked like my mother, and went on to say that my mother was pretty … so did he think I was pretty too?

"Okay, now I get to ask _you_ something," I said teasingly, trying to get my mind off of the possibility of Ron finding me physically appealing. I playfully nudged his arm with my elbow. "Do you like going to Muggle school?"

"It's all right," he shrugged. "It's not like I have much of a choice though, do I? Just because I can't go to Hogwarts doesn't mean I can sit on my lazy arse all year around. The closest Muggle school around here is in the main part of Devon, which is actually pretty far from here, but there's a Floo network attached to this old pub a few streets away. From the outside it looks boarded up and abandoned to the Muggles but on the inside it's actually very active. The old wizard who owns it is fine with me Flooing there every morning so I can get to school." He flipped a page in the photo album and pointed to a picture of a slightly younger looking Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley was holding a small, squirming pink skinned baby with wispy red hair. The husband and wife were smiling eagerly into the camera, their blinking eyes and glistening teeth all captured in the moving image. "Look, it's me!"

"Aw, what a cute baby! I wonder what happened to him."

"Oi, that's not funny!" he objected, but that didn't stop him from laughing right along with me. "All right, my turn," he continued, casually continuing to leaf through the Weasley photo album. "How did you feel when you got your Hogwarts letter?"

"Oh gods …" I chuckled. "I was ecstatic. Suddenly, all at once, everything made sense. The reason I always felt kind of different, and all of those little incidents that had occurred in my childhood that I couldn't explain with any form of logic or reasoning."

"What incidents?"

"It's sort of embarrassing really, but … there was one time when I was still in Muggle school when one of my classmate's papers spontaneously caught on fire. He had made fun of my hair and I was very upset and … it just sort of happened. No one got hurt, though."

"Blimey," he breathed in surprise. "I'd hate to get on your bad side, then."

"I didn't do it on purpose!" I emphasized. "Magical children's abilities often surface as a response to a strong emotion. Okay, my turn … um …" I looked into my lap, knowing perfectly well what I _wanted_ to ask, but suddenly feeling too scared to open my mouth. (Some Gryffindor I was.)

"What's wrong?"

"There's something I _want_ to ask you … but I really don't want you to be offended. I'll completely understand if you don't want to answer. As a matter of fact—never mind."

"Well now you've _got_ to ask me, or else I'll die of curiosity. Spit it out, then."

"I was wondering when … when _you_ found out."

"When I found out what?"

"That you're … you know."

"A Squib?" I averted my gaze, afraid of his reaction and ashamed of my intrusiveness. But to my surprise, he actually patted my shoulder and chuckled. "It's okay, Hermione. It's not a bad word. Hmm," he sighed, deep in thought, "I just missed all the milestones, I suppose. They say there's really no set age for a child to display signs of magic, but we all pretty much know that if _something_ hasn't happened by the time you're ten then there's something wrong. You get your Hogwarts letter when you're eleven, after all. I couldn't tell you when we all knew for sure … we just sort of silently came to the conclusion. Mum and Dad never put me through any sort of 'tests' like they do with other Squibs … We don't talk about it much, really."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine, Hermione, really it is. I'm okay with it. I mean … I won't lie and say I don't feel bad about it _sometimes_ , but it's something about myself that I can't change, so why live my whole life feeling bad about it? Especially when there's so much in life to laugh and be happy about—" He reached out to the coffee table and brought forth another picture I had brought down, an action I instantly regretted the moment I saw his reaction to it. "—like _this_ gem, for example. Bloody hell, is this you?"

"Don't swear, Ronald," I scolded, the inevitable shade of hot pink bursting across my cheeks. "Yes, that is me. Halloween, 1985, I believe."

"What are you supposed to be? Some sort of mutant cat?"

"No," I snapped, snatching the picture from his grasp as he laughed. "I'm _obviously_ a gremlin, you professional prat."

" _You're_ a professional prat."

"I most certainly am not!"

"Hmm," he considered my objection. "You're probably right. You're way too smart to be a professional prat."

"I concur," I chuckled, deciding to turn the conversation on a more civil route. "So, what do you want to do when you grow up?"

"Sorry?"

"Since we were talking about professions."

"Oh …" He frowned, the usual brightness I associated with his face fading in a matter of seconds. "I dunno. I don't like to think much about the future."

"Why not?"

"I reckon I'm more of a 'live in the now' person."

"There must be _something_ you think you'd like to do."

"I dunno."

I rolled my eyes. "You should take more initiative with these types of things, Ron."

"Initiative?" he said, raising his brow. "It's not like we have to go out and get a job _tomorrow_ , Hermione."

"Still," I insisted, "it's never too early to start planning."

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a loud eruption of green flames from the fireplace, from which Mrs. Weasley and Ginny stepped forth with their arms full of bags of carrots, and Ginny smirked at the sight of Ron and I jumping several inches apart. It was only then, as my body was cooling off from the sudden flush of embarrassment, that I realized how close we had been to begin with.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

I looked up from my book at the sound of a knock at the door. Ron was standing in the doorway, clad head to toe in a ghastly pair of orange Chudley Cannons pajamas. He smiled and took a step forward, leaning against the wall.

"I only wanted to say goodnight," he said. "Where's Ginny?"

"She's using the loo. But I'll relay the message." I beamed back at him. "Goodnight, Ron."

Instead of leaving, however, he idly wandered closer to me, his eyes darting to my book.

"And what ungodly piece of literature are you reading tonight?" he asked, taking a seat at the end of my bed.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm simply looking over _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3._ It's a required text for third-years. Which _you_ would have known if you'd come to Diagon Alley with us yesterday."

"I don't particularly care for that place," he shrugged. "Too many people. I get claustrophobic."

"Really?" I inquired, giggling. "Because the twins told me you're more of an arachnophobe."

"Not funny, Granger!" he said, narrowing his eyes. "And if I could I would hex them for telling you that."

"Don't be upset with them," I insisted, my chuckles subsiding. "It was my fault, really. I was talking about you with Ginny while we were in Flourish and Blotts and that sort of prompted them to tell the story—I _do_ think it was a terrible thing for Fred to do, by the way, turning your teddy bear into a spider over something as trivial as you breaking one of his toys. Although, that _is_ a rather impressive display of Transfiguration abilities considering his age at the time. There's plenty of psychological approaches we could try to help you get over the fear, Ron. For example, I could find a small spider and gradually bring it closer and closer to you until you didn't feel afraid of it anymore—"

"Thanks but no thanks," said Ron, shuddering. He regarded me with curious eyes. "So … you were talking about me?"

"Only good things, I promise. I saw a book on the history of the Chudley Cannons and was considering buying it for you but Ginny told me you already have it." I smirked at him. "You do like books after all, I see."

"Only on a select few topics … That was sweet of you to think of me though. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Ron. I like to think you'd do the same for me, right?"

"Right, of course."

Yawning, I closed _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ and placed it on the bedside table. In the same movement I stood up, stretching and yawning some more as I crossed the room to Ginny's dresser to pick up my brush. I ran it through my hair, wincing slightly when I hit a snag, and gently worked past it. Afterward, I sat the brush back down and gathered all of my brunette locks behind my shoulders in one big bundle.

"I try to plait it before I go to bed," I explained, noticing how intensely Ron was observing my every movement. "It makes it a little easier to deal with in the morning."

"I could do it for you," he offered. "So you don't have to hurt your arms reaching behind your head."

"You know how to do it?"

"Yeah, I used to do it for Ginny loads of times when we were younger. Why, you don't think I can do it because I'm a boy?"

"Fine, don't be a prat."

"Do you have a hair thingy?" he asked, motioning to the dresser where my brush sat. "To put on the end."

" _A hair thingy_ ," I repeated with a laugh. I scanned over the various rubbish Ginny had on the dresser until I zoned in one of my miscellaneous hair accessories. Turning back to him, I held up a black hair tie. "Is this _thingy_ suitable?"

"You know what I mean. Hair tie, hair bobble, hair whatchamacallit—I just need one ... Thank you," he added when I handed it to him, suppressing another chuckle—though, in truth, my heart felt as if it were going to burst from my chest. My hair had always been something I was insecure about. It protruded from my scalp in a bushy mass of brown curls and tended to get especially frizzy when exposed to certain weather conditions. There wasn't much I could do with it in the way of style other than simply brushing it out and wearing it long. I occasionally accessorized with a headband or barrette, but other than that I had learned not to devote much time to it, because my hair simply refused to be tamed. (It was all the more curious when I considered the straight dark locks of my mother and the thin, wispy curls of my father. I still wasn't sure which side of my family I had to thank for the 'hair-that-refuses-to-be-even-slightly-manageable' gene.)

But in spite of all this, Ron looked more than eager to assist me. He wanted to _touch_ my hair. I blushed as I resumed my seat on the bed and turned my back to him, shuddering as I felt his hands make contact with my mane. He deftly separated it into three even bunches, humming to himself as he began interlacing them—and each graze of his fingers against my locks, and every gentle tugging motion he produced as he worked on me only made the redness in my cheeks burn more intensely.

It was over before I could even begin to assess the alien feeling he had aroused on me. "All done," he announced, sounding rather proud of myself. He secured the plait with the hair tie and I faced him once more.

"Thank you."

"No problem. Um—" he stood up, offering me a weak, nervous grin. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, then?"

"Right."

"Okay." But he stood there still, not saying a word, and simply looked at me with an expression of suppressed longing—like he had more to say but couldn't find the adequate words to vocalize it. He opened his mouth but closed it again, several times. "Goodnight, Hermione," he finally said, a little too fast, and he was out of the room before I could even wish him the same.

I sat there, replaying what had just occurred in my head multiple times, trying to make sense of any of it. Finally, several minutes later, Ginny returned, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Had a good chat with Ron then, did you?"

"How did you—?"

"Oh, I was half-way down the stairs when I heard you two talking. Figured I'd go steal some of the candy Fred and George hoard in their room and give you two some privacy. Do you want a chocolate frog or something? Or did Ron already give you your sweet for tonight?" And she proceeded to make exaggerated kissing noises, which caused me to release a scandalized gasp. "Oh please, do you honestly think I'm the only one who's noticed? Even _Mum's_ noticed how close you two have gotten."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whatever you do, don't break his heart, okay?" Ginny continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Or else I'll never hear the end of his moping. You should have seen him when the Keeper for the Cannons came down with spattergroit—he moped for _weeks_."

"First you accuse me of liking Percy, and now Ron."

"Percy was a red herring. I bet you're regretting teaching me that term now, aren't you?"

"Go to sleep, Ginny."

Giggling, she pulled back her covers and slipped between the sheets, turning over in her bed to look at me as I did the same. "Nice hair, by the way."

I blushed, wondering exactly what part of Ron and I's conversation my best friend had overheard.

* * *

As for the remaining weeks of August leading up to the start of my third year at Hogwarts, I could recall with the utmost honesty that nothing of particular significance occurred between Ron and I. We still spoke all the time, of course, exchanging numerous anecdotes on one another's lives, becoming all the more close with each passing day—and although I appreciated him with every flaw and freckle he possessed, there was a constant part of me wishing that he _was_ a wizard—that he would wake up tomorrow and release his long suppressed magical abilities, only so that he could come to Hogwarts with me and I wouldn't have to go without seeing him for months.

An unexpected ring from my parents on the twenty-sixth of the month brought the aforementioned predicament to an even greater sense of urgency. Mum and Dad had, to put it frankly, said to hell with it with the last portion of their business trip and were on their way home to spend the last few days of my holiday with me. Hearing my mother's emotionally exhausted voice on the other end of the receiver only reminded me how much I missed them.

On the day of my departure, I awoke before anyone else (or so I thought) to do a final walk-through of Ginny's bedroom and the bathroom to ensure I hadn't forgotten anything. It was only half past five in the morning, which preceded even the Weasley matriarch's rising by a good hour or so. I quietly struggled to lift my heavy trunk downstairs and placed it by the front door. When I went into the kitchen to procure a refreshment I was shocked to find a certain redhead already at the breakfast table, sipping at a cuppa and sinking his teeth into a green apple.

"Morning," Ron greeted.

"You're up early," I observed, taking a seat across from him.

"Couldn't sleep." He took a long sip at his tea and set the cup down, sucking in his lower lip and kneading it with his upper teeth.

"Did you burn yourself?" I inquired.

"No. I was thinking."

"That's a bit of a rare occurrence for you, isn't it?"

"Oi! Watch it Granger, or I'll feed your books to our garden gnomes. Those little buggers will eat _anything_."

I placed my hands over my mouth, my eyes going wide in faux horror. "You wouldn't!"

"Oh yes I would. But for the sake of sparing your feelings I'll resist." He paused for a moment, recollecting his thoughts. "And besides, I was actually hoping to talk to you before it was time for my dad to drive you home."

"Oh, about what?"

"See, that's the thing. I wasn't expecting you to be up this early. I kind of wanted more time to figure out how I was going to say it. It's really important. Kind of. Er—" he stood up suddenly, throwing his apple core into the rubbish bin and motioning to the backdoor. "—let's take a walk. Do you want to take a walk with me?"

"All right, Ron."

The backyard of the Burrow was exceptionally beautiful in the paleness of the early morning, and the dewy grass dampened the tops of my feet that my ballerina-style slippers left exposed. Ron walked at my side, only an inch or two preventing our arms from touching. He dug his hands into his the pockets of his jeans and stopped suddenly near the pond. I turned and regarded him with a keen expression, wondering what on earth could have him so nervous that he needed to take me outside so there was absolutely no chance of anyone overhearing us, but at the same time attempting to maintain a casual appearance, as evidenced by the low whistle he emitted as he rocked back and forth on his feet.

"So … hey," he said.

"Hey."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"You made that clear before we came outside."

"I did? Right, I did. Oh—oh bloody hell." He ran a hand through his hair and released an audible exhale. "Sorry. I'm all over the place today. It's just—I've got a really good idea. Or at least I _think_ it's a really good idea ... Remember when you told me I need to take initiative with my life?"

"Well … yes," I said slowly, recalling the conversation from some weeks earlier. "Although … I hope you didn't take anything I said too close to heart, Ron. I mean, no two people are the same and sometimes I tend to forget that not everyone has the same aspirations that I have—"

"—Yeah, but," he cut me off, "I think there was some truth to what you were saying. I have to admit that sometimes I let the fact that I can't do magic cloud my vision—make me think I'm never going to amount to anything really important, you know? That's why I told you I don't really like thinking about the future. But I was thinking … the more things I get on track _now_ in my life, the easier it will be when I'm older to be successful. Taking initiative, right? Getting your life together. Does … does that make any sense?"

"Um … sure," I lied. "And what exactly does any of that have to do with me?"

"I've decided on something. Or rather … I think I have. The thing is I sort of need your permission before I officially decide on it."

"What?" I crinkled my brow in confusion, studying him. When I met his intense, azure gaze, I found that his eyes were bright with an infectious enthusiasm. "What are you talking about, Ron? Let out with it already."

"I … I reckon I want to marry you when we grow up." For the first time in the conversation, he managed to sound so _casual_ —almost like he merely told me the weather was nice today—and I questioned if I even heard him right. I continued to stare, eyes fluttering and heart pumping in incredulity. The small grin he had been sporting fell as he took in my expression. "Are you okay?"

"I was making sure I … er, _heard_ you correctly. Did you say that … you want to marry me?"

"Yeah, see this is what I was thinking—" He was off again and I had no hope of reeling him in. "When you're a grown-up you've got to take action with things, right? Get a job, make your own money, move out of your parents' home and support yourself and all that. You can't sit on your arse and expect things to go well for you. And all of that can be hard enough on its own—but eventually you've got to find someone to do it with too. If there's two grown-ups making money and putting in all in one place it'll be better for both of them, right? They can move into a nice house and have whatever they want. And not just the financial aspect of it, but also the general support and company, right? A person's got to have company or eventually they'll go insane. It's—uh, bloody hell, what's the term for it?"

"Mutually beneficial?" I offered.

"Right, exactly!"

"I ... I suppose I agree with that." I nodded, staring at him with all the more wonder as a fresh smile broke out across his freckled face.

"See, my idea was—why not decide here and now that one day we'll get married, that we'll be those mutually beneficial partners for each other? It'll be one less thing to worry about when we get older and we have to worry about all the other adult rubbish."

"Not _everyone_ gets married, Ronald," I stated matter-of-factly. "By no means is it some sort of requirement for adulthood. There are plenty of people who go on to have fulfilling lives without ever entering that form of commitment."

"Come on, all girls want to get married someday!"

"We most certainly do not!" I objected. "That is an absolutely over-generalized and sexist statement, Ronald Weasley!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he backtracked, holding up his hands apologetically; there was already a burst of dark pink erupting on his cheeks. "You're right, that was wrong of me to say. I'm sorry. All I was really trying to get across was … well, _you'd_ like to get married someday, wouldn't you?"

As much as I wanted to spit a harsh "no" in his face, I knew it'd be a lie. Ron seemed to sense the softening of my expression, and he lowered his hands slowly. Indeed, to say "no" would be an insult to all the fantasies my six-to-seven-year-old self had conjured up during my solitary hours of afternoon play in the privacy of my bedroom. I was always a princess of some sort, and my husband—always a faceless, tall man with a soothing voice—would read aloud to me excerpts from my favorite books (at the time _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ and _The Secret Garden_ ) as I poured us tea with biscuits. The majority of these innocent daydreams were acted out with Mr. Waddles—my favorite stuffed bear—and were not pondered on with much regard to the future. But now that I was actually being confronted with the genuine proposition of it, I was only slightly reluctant to admit that—yes, I'd much rather be married to a man one day than to an expressionless brown bear with a crooked red bowtie and a partially torn ear.

"I suppose," I admitted through gritted teeth. "Yes, I would personally like to get married someday."

"Right, so then … how about it?"

I was tempted to pinch myself to ensure that I was indeed awake and not stuck in some excessively peculiar dream in which Ronald Weasley—the boy I had not even personally known a full _two months_ —was basically asking for my hand.

"It's an absurd suggestion, Ron," I finally said. "I mean—we're so young. Who's to say we're even compatible that way?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't have to be _like that._ It could be like—you know, two friends who decide to live together and have the same finances and stuff. People do that, don't they? I like you well enough. We're friends, aren't we? I'm not in to the books as much as you are but that's okay. You're nice and you can be funny when you want to be and I like you … Don't you like me?"

"Of course I like you!" I replied shrilly. "But … there's a difference between liking someone as a friend and deciding to intertwine your life with that person!"

"Oh." His voice dropped in disappointment, and he looked at his shoes with a fallen expression. I immediately regretted the harshness of my tone. "You're right. It was a stupid idea."

"No—no it's not a stupid idea," I tried. "It's just … you barely know me."

"You've been living with me all summer, Hermione. I know you enough to know that I like you." He looked me in the eyes. "And even if things didn't work out for me as far as careers go, I could still be help around the house. Wherever we wanted to live, that is. Mum's taught me how to cook loads of things without magic. I can clean and do laundry all right too. So, like, if you were the one with the good well-paying job, you could come home to a clean house with food on the table. I think it'd be nice. I dunno." He dropped his head again. "I thought it was a good idea. Then again this is coming from the bloke who still decorates his room with Chudley Cannons posters even though they haven't won a game in years." He laughed throatily, turning away from me and kicking a pebble into the pond. "Forget I said anything, Hermione. I'm sorry I ruined your last day here with my rubbish."

Naturally, every rational bone in my body demanded that I walk straight back into the Weasley home and forget the whole ludicrous matter. But, for reasons that were beyond me at the time—perhaps because my heart was thumping too tremendously loud in my ears for me to listen to anything my brain was telling me to do, or perhaps because my conscious would not allow me to leave the poor boy standing there looking so miserably dejected, or (and this was the reason I would regard in later years to be the most likely) perhaps it was because, even then, unbeknownst to my own conscious acknowledgment, I had already fallen hopelessly in love with Ronald Weasley—I instead reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned back to me with a raised brow, licking his lips in nervous anticipation.

"I don't think it's a bad idea, Ron. Now that you've explained your reasoning, I actually find it to be ... quite the opposite." And I extended my hand.

His eyes went wide, bluer and brighter than I had ever seen them. "You—you mean it? Because I completely understand if you don't—"

"I'm saying _yes_ , you prat!" I exclaimed with a playful smile. "Now are you going to shake my hand and make this deal official or are you withdrawing your offer? Because either way you're being extremely rude right now."

"No—no. I—I mean, yes. Yes, of course," he fumbled over his words as he straightened up, clearing his throat and rubbing his palms on his jeans. Apparently rejuvenated with newfound confidence, he firmly took hold of my hand, shaking it up and down slowly. "So, we're agreed then?" he said, gripping my hand tighter. "We'll get married when we grow up?"

I nodded. "Yes," I replied, and I wondered if his heart was beating as fast as mine.

We were only thirteen. And as all things were in the summer of one's first year of teenhood, the air that surrounded us was infected with a sort of deadly hopefulness that made us succumb to even the most grandiose of fantasies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

"Hermione," said Ginny, her voice dramatically low. "I have to tell you something. It might be the most important thing I ever tell you."

"Okay," I replied.

"There's a pig's tail growing out of my bum. I really think I need to get it checked out by a Healer."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm also planning to go on a cockroach diet. I'll only eat cockroaches for the next six months. Blended cockroaches for drinks too."

"That sounds nice."

"I was also considering dyeing your cat's fur purple. That would suit him, don't you think?"

"Yes, very much."

There was a brief pause.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Ginny?"

"Did you listen to _anything_ I said?" I looked up from my parchment, blushing guiltily. "I thought not," Ginny supplied, "because you just agreed to let me turn Crookshanks purple … What are you writing?"

"A letter."

"Who's it for? Wait, let me guess—your future husband?" She giggled and reached down from the overstuffed red sofa to collect my recently acquired feline companion in her arms, bringing him into her lap and petting him affectionately. Crookshanks, the orange-furred half-Kneazle, was a gift from my parents upon their return from Spain—even though I told them I had already purchased the supplies needed for school, they had insisted on another last-minute trip to Diagon Alley to get me "something special". It was love at first sight, really—the cat was independent, intelligent, and intuitive (all of which were traits I admired in any companion), but he was also not above the frequent cuddle session on the couch in the Gryffindor common room or affectionately rubbing his head against my legs as I worked on homework.

I watched with a smile as Ginny gently stroked the top of his head, to which he purred appreciatively, and she smirked at me as she waited for me to address her question. Indeed, Ginny's playful teasing on the matter of Ron and I's friendship—which had continued strong throughout the first two months of term through semi-weekly letter writing—was more than ironic. She constantly referred to Ron as my "future husband", not knowing anything about the "arrangement" between her brother and I that dictated that, yes, that was _exactly_ what he was.

Admittedly, the second that the term had begun I had semi-successfully flushed out all thoughts of Ronald Weasley—at least those pertaining to the strange feelings he had awoken in me when he plaited my hair that one night, or when he took me outside in his backyard and told me he liked me enough to want to spend his adult life with me … I didn't have the time to ponder on the _what if's?_ or the _what did he mean's?_ of the situation, not when there were essays to be written and books to be read. If anything, Ginny and the twins were the ones who constantly brought the youngest Weasley brother to the forefront of any conversation I was involved in, dissecting every single interaction they had observed between Ron and I and extracting "proof" that we were secretly boyfriend and girlfriend. I dismissed all of the accusations, of course, because Ron and I were _friends_ (friends that had basically said "let's get married one day", but friends nonetheless) and our relationship was completely platonic. Even his letters to me were decidedly innocent, composed of the standard "how are you?" and "I hope you are well" and "school is going fine" and the like.

"A- _hem_ ," Ginny cleared her throat, waiting for my answer.

"For your information, _this_ letter is for my parents," I said with a flourish of my quill. "I replied to Ron's letter earlier today, actually."

"A-ha!" she exclaimed. "See, you didn't correct me when I referred to Ron as your future husband. So that means that you _admit_ —" Ginny suddenly went dead silent, and I looked up at her with a concerned frown.

"Ginny, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," she said. Gently setting Crookshanks next to me, Ginny rose from the couch and stood awkwardly, her eyes focusing on something on the other side of the room. "Er, it's getting late, Hermione. I think I'll go to bed."

Glancing down at my Muggle wristwatch, I remarked: "It's not even nine."

"Yeah, but … Goodnight, Hermione." Without giving me a chance to respond, she turned and fled up the stairs leading to the dormitories in a flash of red hair, leaving behind a pleasantly pungent aroma of strawberry shampoo and whatever fragranced lotion she had been wearing.

Curious, I turned my head and followed the path of her stare to one of the tables pushed against the wall, which had been unoccupied only a few seconds ago. Now, leaning back in the wooden chair and focusing intensely on a piece of parchment, was a boy in my year. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a small frown forming in the corners of his thin lips. I knew who he was. Everyone at Hogwarts knew who _he_ was, being that he was the youngest Seeker the school had seen in over a century. Was _he_ really the reason Ginny had suddenly been stricken with such crippling shyness? Ginny, the headstrong, assertive, and confident younger girl that even the twins did not tease excessively, suddenly stripped of all her powers because of a boy? I bit my bottom lip, analyzing the issue in my head as I idly stroked Crookshanks, and became so lost in thought that I failed to notice that the very subject of my scrutiny had, in fact, approached me.

"Hello?" he asked for what must have been the second or third time. "Are you all right?"

"Oh," I gasped, choking on my own embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I was deep in thought."

"Nothing to fret over." He smiled at me, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. Now that he was standing right in front of me, I could fully appreciate his appearance: he possessed unkempt jet-black hair, flawless floral white skin, and emerald eyes that were dazzling even through his round spectacles. "I was wondering if I could borrow that?" He pointed to _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles,_ which sat next to me among the other various books I had stacked amongst each other. "I'm afraid I spilled ink all over my copy the other day."

"Did you try a cleaning spell? _Scourgify_ , or perhaps _Terego_?"

"No, I hadn't thought of that." He looked down, and I felt bad for embarrassing him.

"Maybe I could help you with that sometime." Smiling, I handed him the book.

"Thanks." He gently removed the volume from my grasp, but to my surprise, instead of taking it back to his table, he actually gathered his belongings and joined me before the fireplace. Crookshanks stirred in suspicion, but soon decided the boy harmless when he opened my book and began writing on a fresh sheet of parchment.

"Which assignment are you working on?" I asked curiously.

"The uses and benefits of electricity. And, er—" He flipped over his blank sheet to look at the one beneath it, where several notes were sloppily scribbled in every direction. He turned it sideways, eyeing one line: "—its impact on Muggle culture."

"Wasn't that essay due last week?"

"Professor Burbage was willing to give me an extension due to the Quidditch game." I gave a sort of involuntary "humph" and the boy offered me a nervous grin. "You don't approve?"

"Oh, no, it's not that," I flushed. "I suppose I have always believed homework should come before extracurricular activities." I averted my gaze from those strikingly green eyes, fearing he would take offense.

"That explains a lot," he chuckled.

"Explains what?"

"Why you're the top of every class, Hermione."

I blinked at him several times in incredulity. "You know my name?"

"Of course, we've had classes together for the past two years. You don't think I've picked up on your name yet?"

"We've never sat close enough together to justify starting a conversation," I reasoned. "That and I've always assumed I've been more on the anonymous side."

"It's kind of hard to be anonymous when you raise your hand to answer a question before the professor has even finished saying it, don't you think?" He released a breathy little laugh, but upon noticing my lowered gaze, he added, "I'm only taking the mickey, Hermione. Everyone thinks you're a genius."

"Oh, well … thank you, Harry." It was the first time I addressed him by his name, and when he looked up from his paper to smile at me, there was a distinct warmth to his presence that immediately allowed me to recognize that there was much more to him than the Gryffindor Quidditch star I had previously known him to be.

* * *

 _29 November 1993_

 _Hi, Hermione._

 _I'm sure Ginny has already told you this, but my parents have invited your parents over for Christmas—which includes you too, of course. I look forward to meeting them. And to seeing you too, obviously. I'll try to tell Dad to actually let them enjoy their time here instead of asking them a million questions about 'a traditional Muggle Christmas' or whatever, but there's only so much you can do with that man._

 _School is going fairly well over here; I have to read_ Emma _for my English final. The main character sort of reminds me of you. I mean that in a good way. She's kind of snobby but she's also really smart. Not that you're snobby, I only meant the smart bit of it. Gods, I'm rambling now, aren't I? I can't even write a simple letter to you without rambling. Sorry. I don't know if you've ever read the book (although I have a feeling you have, because you've read everything, right?) but Emma is definitely an interesting character. How is school going for you? I reckon I already know the answer (great, fantastic, outstanding, or any similar adjective) but it's always cool to hear about how magical education works too._

 _Mum has already finished making a sweater for you. I hope you like maroon. I don't, but I'm sure it'll look pretty on you._

 _Good luck on your finals (not that you need it) and I will see you soon._

 _Ron_

Grinning from ear to ear, I held the letter close to my chest and turned away from Ginny so she could not witness my reddening expression. I had not the slightest idea (or, at least, not in my conscious reasoning) what it was about this particular letter from Ron that made my stomach erupt with such a maddening case of the butterflies, but the pleasant warmth that burst from my heart and spread throughout the rest of my body whenever I read it was distracting enough to cause me to put off replying to it for an entire week. Perhaps it was his complimenting of my literary knowledge (yes, I had indeed read _Emma_ ), or maybe him making me privy to the fact that I had a lovingly homemade article of clothing awaiting me that Christmas (the "it'll look pretty on you" line didn't help my heart beat any slower either). The real answer, however, was actually quite clear in the back of my head: in this short letter alone, Ron had brought to my attention the glorious reality that I was going to see him again—that the connection we had established during the previous summer we shared together was more than a mere involuntary response to the fact that I was living in the same house as him at the time; no, there was something genuine between us, a special link that existed even independently of my friendship with Ginny. Looking back on it, my reaction seems rather silly now, but when you're a young teenager, a friendship that survived several months of not seeing each other (especially considering that we were under no formal obligation to continue communication with one another at all) was a true friendship indeed, and I pressed the letter even closer to my sweater-clad chest, crinkling it slightly.

"Unngguhhhh," Ginny groaned obnoxiously from my bed. "Hermione, you have to help me or else I'm going to die!"

I shook my head, inconspicuously slipping the letter in between the pages of one of my journals placed on one of the several dressers in the dormitory. Turning to Ginny, I assessed her condition and deemed her a lovelorn soul indeed: her hair, spread out on my bed like a splatter of red paint, her eyes melancholy and her lips forming a pout. She idly flipped the pages of the _Witch Weekly_ edition she was holding up, sighing every so often.

"You know, if you actually stuck around whenever he came by instead of making up an excuse to run away, you'd find he's rather easy to talk to," I tried.

"That's easy for _you_ to say," Ginny scoffed, flipping another page and pausing on a particularly attractive image of Kirley Duke (the lead guitarist for the Weird Sisters), who winked appreciatively at her. " _You_ have things in common with him."

"Oh yes, so many things. Let's see: we're both in the same House—which you also have in common with him, as well as the hundred other Gryffindors in our House, we're both in the same year, like the dozens and dozens of third-years currently attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and we both have Muggle ancestry—just like the current census indicates eight in ten wizards born past 1950 does—considering that his mother is a Muggle-born like me. Yes, _so_ many things!"

"And you're both only children."

"So?"

"So … well, it's a conversation starter at least!"

"He only started talking to me because he wanted to borrow _my book_. He didn't approach me and ask for my life story."

"But now?"

"Now what?"

"Now you two talk about more than books and homework, don't you?"

"Of course we do. He's my friend. And he would be your friend to if, like I said, you didn't disappear every time he walked into the room."

"Ugh," Ginny moaned in frustration, comically placing her open magazine over her face. "He's _so_ cute," she said, her words slightly muffled against the glossy paper.

"He's really nice too. Granted, he could use some more motivation when it comes to his study skills and essay writing, but he can be pretty brilliant when he applies himself too. I'm meeting him soon to study for our Potions final, as a matter of fact. Would you care to join us?"

"I think you know the answer to that," Ginny sighed, standing up from my bed. She sauntered over to the door and leaned against the rounded frame. "Look here, Granger," she began again, grinning at me, "I've neglected washing my hair, so I'm going to tend to that now. But first, I should tell you, the last time Ron wrote to me he wanted me to figure out what you would want for Christmas. I'm supposed to be really subtle about it though so you won't expect it."

"You're doing a great job."

"I know." She giggled, twirling a ginger lock around her index finger. "But seriously Hermione, what would you like? You can already expect a sweater or something from my mother and a card from the rest of us—and of course I'm going to chip in too—but I reckon Ron really fancies the idea of making an … _individual contribution_."

I rolled my eyes at the suggestive inflection she placed on the last two words of her statement, although I couldn't deny, even to myself, that Ron wanting to personally give me something for the upcoming holiday was beyond flattering—it was downright adorable. However, my parents had raised me with a healthy emphasis on humility, and I would never be so presumptuous as to think to explicitly tell a friend what to get me for a holiday.

"Tell him not to get me anything," I said. "Although I find it to be an admirable gesture."

"Not even a set of fabric book covers? The updated edition of _Hogwarts, A History_?"

"No thank you, Ginny."

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave me a questioning quirk of her eyebrow. "You know he's not going to accept that, right? Ron's stubborn like that. He's going to gather up whatever money he can to get you _something_." On that note, Ginny wished me goodbye and disappeared from the doorway, leaving me to ponder on my own hypocrisy. How could I, Hermione Granger, in any logical justification, think it inappropriate of Ron to get me something for Christmas, when the decorative homework planners I had bought for both he and Ginny had been sitting on my desk at home waiting to be wrapped since my parents took me back to Diagon Alley? Obviously, a part of my reasoning had to do with the fact that I knew the Weasleys were not exactly financially abundant, and I wouldn't want Ron to spend whatever allowance or birthday money he had to get anything for me. It was only considerate, right? At the same time, I didn't want him to think that I thought of him as helpless or incapable. How could I communicate to him that being at the Burrow surrounded by the warmth of the Weasley family was more than enough, especially without inherently giving away that Ginny had made me aware of his intentions to begin with?

Deciding to ponder on the matter on another day, I gathered my essentials and headed to the library. It was about a half hour earlier than the time I had agreed to meet Harry there, but I figured I could use the extra time to myself to prepare and obtain any needed books. When I arrived, however, I was surprised to see Harry already sitting at our usual bench, his book bag seated next to him and his materials spread out across the table. He looked up as I approached.

"You're here early," I said softly as I took a seat across from him, carefully avoiding disturbing the hypersensitive ears of Madam Pince.

"Thought I'd try to beat you here for once," he smiled back at me.

"In that case, I think I've had a good influence on you, Harry Potter."

"Perhaps so. Does that mean I'm rubbing off on you too at all? Will I be able to convince you to try out for the Quidditch team next year?"

"Not a chance," I chuckled under my breath as I removed several books from my bag. Harry watched me.

"Listen," he said, drawing my attention back to him. "Before we start, I was hoping I could ask you something."

"Sure."

"Well … it's about your friend. The one with the red hair ... Does she not like me or something?"

I gave a nervous smile, mentally strategizing how I could possibly tiptoe my way around this inevitable conversation. "Why would you think that?" I asked innocently.

"She practically runs out the room every time I come around! Haven't you noticed? Just last week when I found you two in the common room to invite you to come watch Quidditch practice—remember that?—she got away from me so fast you would have thought I had dragon pox!"

"Ginny's … shy," I reasoned; the words tasted unpleasantly foreign in my mouth, because "Ginny" and "shy" did not belong in the same sentence.

Despite appearing skeptical and not completely satisfied with my answer, Harry dropped the matter and allowed us to proceed with a productive hour of study, after which we headed back to Gryffindor Tower in a friendly chatter that I wished Ginny would have partaken in.

My final morning at Hogwarts preceding the winter holiday was met with a particularly enthusiastic Harry tapping on my shoulder as I entered the common room following a hearty breakfast in the Great Hall. Ginny stayed behind after insisting on another helping of porridge, and I was merely hoping to check my trunk to ensure I had everything packed for the impending trip home.

"Hey, I was hoping to catch you before we boarded the train," he said. "I would share a compartment with you but I promised Neville I'd let him instruct me on how to care for the potted Mimbulus Mimbletonia he's given me for Christmas. Apparently there's a special method to avoid getting sprayed with that green gunk they produce … Anyway—" Harry turned away from me, going over to the sofa before the fireplace and grabbing something. When he faced me again, I saw that he was holding a small rectangular package, wrapped in a simple crimson paper with a gold bow placed on top. "—this is for you," he said, extending it to me. "You've been such a great help to me this term and I knew I had to get you something."

"Oh … Oh, Harry," I said, taking it from his hands. "This is incredibly kind of you, but I'm afraid I didn't think to get you anything!" I felt the uncomfortable heat rise in my cheeks. I knew Harry and I were friends, but I hadn't considered that we had reached the 'give-each-other-presents' level of friendship in the short amount of time we had come to know each other this term, and I felt incredibly rude as I held the lovely box in my hands.

Harry, bless him, only smiled and gave an understanding shrug. "Don't worry about that, Hermione. The marks you've helped me earn this term are more than enough."

I rolled my eyes. "You're giving me too much credit. You're a fine student on your own, Harry."

"But far too invested in extracurricular activities, right?" he suggested, mimicking my tone from the first time we spoke. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he chuckled as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me.

* * *

My parents, Crookshanks, and I arrived at the Burrow on Christmas Eve with the intention of staying until the morning after Boxing Day. As Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ushered my parents around the house, I took Crookshanks upstairs and comfortably settled back into Ginny's room, my eyes ever alert for a certain redheaded boy. When Ginny left me alone for a trip to the loo, I seized the opportunity to remove my gifts from my overnight bag and made my way downstairs.

The Weasley's Christmas tree was an enormous spectacle in the living area, lovingly decorated from top to bottom in ancient, colorful ornaments, and a magically subdued gnome dressed as an angel on top. The space beneath it was already filled with at least a dozen presents, and I discreetly placed my own contributions amongst the bunch with a satisfied sigh.

When I stood up and turned in the direction of the kitchen, however, I jumped at the unexpected sight before me: Ronald Weasley, looking at least two inches taller than the last time I had seen him, with his ginger fringe handsomely brushed to one side of his face, his back pressed against the doorway with an overly browned piece of toast in his hand. As he greeted me with his signature lopsided grin, I noticed that there were a few crumbs dusting his lips, and his tongue darted out to catch them. My breath hitched in my throat.

"Hi, Hermione," he said smoothly, and my heart did several somersaults.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

"Oh!" I squealed in surprise, my hands going to my mouth. "Ronald, you gave me a fright."

"Sorry," he said through a mouthful of toast, holding up his hands in defense. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Don't speak with your mouth full. And you really shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

"I wasn't sneaking up on you; I only just got here, as a matter of fact. And are you really going to scold me when I haven't seen you in months, Hermione Granger?" He placed the last bit of his toast in his mouth and rubbed his hands on the front of his faded denim. Grinning, he approached me, and in two strides of his long legs he had his arms wrapped tightly around my smaller frame. I hugged him back, a bit astounded at his boldness, but grateful nonetheless.

"Hi," he greeted, pulling back to look at me. "How was school?"

"It was all right. And yours?"

"Muggle school is Muggle school," he shrugged. "Although I'm undefeated in the chess club this term."

"That's fantastic, Ron!"

"Thanks," he replied, blushing. I smiled at the sight of his beautifully pale skin turning that familiar shade of scarlet. He did indeed look taller than the same thirteen-year-old boy I had the pleasure of meeting the preceding summer—a fact that was made even more noteworthy by my realization that his feet were only clad in a thin pair of black socks, while I was still wearing my standard white trainers. He ran a hand through his hair—his ginger locks moved smoothly through his fingers, like fire was bursting from his palm—and grinned nervously at me, apparently just as lost in his observation of me as I was of him. "I met your parents too, by the way," he said. "Mum was showing them to Charlie's room—well, it _was_ Charlie's room, now it's 'the guest room'. I was right when I said you look like your mother." He beamed at me all the more brighter, and there was that feeling again—the foreign, tingling heat that ran up and down my spine. Since the only other time I had felt this way was when Ron tended to my hair that one night several months ago, I could only determine then that this feeling was a direct reaction to Ronald Weasley's presence. (What would Ron say at some discovery such as this? _Blimey_ , most likely. Yes, blimey!) "So," Ron began again, effectively returning my attention back to his piercing blue eyes, "What were you doing by the tr—AH!" he yelped suddenly as Crookshanks (who by this time had followed me downstairs) aggressively batted his paws against his legs, letting out an intimidating hiss. "What the bloody hell is _that?_ " he asked, leaping away from myself and the cat.

"This is Crookshanks," I replied, scooping my feline friend into my arms. "He's gentle."

"Gentle?" Ron repeated incredulously. "Hermione, did you not see it try to claw my jeans off?"

" _He_ was not attempting to claw your jeans off, Ronald. That's utterly ridiculous. He was simply trying to assert himself. Crookshanks is a bit protective of me, that's all. Aren't you, Crookshanks?" I cooed at the orange-furred feline in my arms, kissing the top of his furry head. I stepped toward Ron, who regarded me with wide blue eyes. "This is _Ron_ , Crookshanks. He's nice … You can pet him if you want to, Ron," I added. Ron offered me a quizzical expression, but slowly extended his hand to Crookshanks nonetheless, gently stroking his back. That cat purred in my arms, closing his eyes in content. "See? I told you he was gentle. He probably saw how close you were to me and didn't know if you were threatening me or not. Now he sees that I trust you so there's nothing to worry about. Crookshanks is very intelligent like that—he is a half-Kneazle, after all. It might have something to do with the new surroundings too, because he didn't have nearly as aggressive a reaction with Harry."

"Harry? Who's Harry?"

"Oh, Harry is—"

But at that moment my parents entered the room with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at their side, and all discussion ceased as the Weasley matriarch insisted that we tuck in to dinner.

* * *

After ample amounts of Mrs. Weasley's delicious cooking had been consumed, I idly wandered out of the backdoor of the Burrow with the intention of getting some fresh air. Mum and Dad were indulging in an after-dinner cup of tea with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley on the sofa near the Christmas tree, and I smiled in their direction as I quietly slipped into the backyard. I buried my mitten-clad hands into the depths of my winter jacket, enjoying the sound of the snow-covered grass crunching beneath my boots as I walked in no particular direction. It was a pleasantly cool night and the direction of the wind was on my side; it swept my hair out of my face and ticked my nose. From the frog-infested pond (it was cold, but not nearly cold enough for the water to freeze over) came an orchestra of ribbits, and I took a seat on one of the larger rocks by the water, my thoughts drifting to the memory of when Ron taught me to skip stones at the very same spot.

As if on cue, I heard the backdoor open and close behind me; I turned, and there was Ron, walking toward me with a smile on his face and a wrapped serviette in his hand. He sat down next to me and began unwrapping it as he addressed me: "Ginny told me you came out here; thought I'd join you."

"I'm glad you did. What have you got there?"

"Cherry biscuits. Mum makes them the best. Want one?"

"I'm sure they're delicious, but I can't possibly imagine eating another bite right now."

"Are you _suuuuurrree_?" He held out one of the light yellow, cherry-topped cookies to me, allowing the fresh aroma to penetrate my nostrils, and I couldn't resist. I took it from him, biting off a small portion and moaning lightly at the delicious warmth and crumbling texture. "I thought so," Ron chuckled, consuming one of his own in one bite. "Good?"

"Marvelous," I replied.

"Do your parents bake at all?"

"Occasionally. Being dentists, though, sweets aren't exactly in abundant supply in my household."

He looked at me, his eyes narrowed slightly. "You've got a crumb. Here—" Ron then extended his hand to my face and, with the pad of his thumb, he swiped away the aforementioned crumb from the corner of my mouth. My heart nearly stopped at the brief contact. Then he was back to another biscuit, and I was left to sit for a moment staring at him and praying he was oblivious to the effect he had on me. "Tell me about your friend Harry," he said suddenly. "Since you didn't get a chance to earlier."

I extended my arms behind my back, resting my weight against my palms as I considered his question. "I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance during the latter half of this term," I supplied. "He's very nice."

"So … he's a boy?"

"Harry isn't exactly a feminine name, Ron." I rolled my eyes.

"I was just making sure!"

"What difference does it make?"

"It doesn't," he said casually. "Do you like him?"

"As a friend," I emphasized. "Yes, he's very kind."

"Hmm."

From there we fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the peacefulness of the pond, and when it was time to go back inside to say goodnight, he hugged me so tightly that for a moment I thought he'd never let go—and I found that I didn't want him to.

* * *

On Christmas morning I awoke to find the Weasleys and my parents already in the process of present opening: Fred and George kissed their mother while having their hand knitted scarves wrapped around their necks; Ginny twirled appreciatively around the room in her new crimson sweater with a large golden "G" stitched to the front; Percy frowned at the copy of _How to Impress Witches: The Guide for Wizards Who Just Don't Have What It Takes_ given to him by the twins; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley repeatedly thanked my parents for the fancy assortment of chocolates they had given them, and so on.

When I approached, Ginny immediately rushed forward and flung her arms around my shoulders. "Oh, Hermione, thank you for the planner! I promise I'll put it to good use." She stepped back and beamed at me. "Ron loves his too."

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs in his room, I think," said Ginny. "But don't you dare think about running off right now when you've got so many presents to open!"

True to Ginny's word, the load of presents I received this year was especially generous: a lovely maroon sweater from Mrs. Weasley with large "H" in the front (as foretold by Ron in his letter), a magically detangling brush from Ginny along with an assortment of other hair accessories (my particular favorite was a purple headband with a large artificial butterfly on the side that was charmed to flutter its patterned wings every so often), a joke notebook from the twins (as if mocking my admiration for academic achievement, the pages were charmed to erase whatever notes were written in it and replace it with a flippant version. For example: 'The first series of Anti-Cheating quills were administered to Hogwarts students in 1879' translated to 'In 1879 the Hogwarts staff made literally the stupidest decision ever'), and finally, from my parents, an anthology of multicultural fairy tales.

After thanking all of my givers, Ginny was kind enough to help me bring everything upstairs, and—having the observant eye that she did—immediately took notice to the unopened crimson package that sat amongst my clothes in my bag the second I opened it to store my new belongings properly.

"Who's _that_ from?" she asked eagerly.

"Harry," I replied flatly, inwardly cursing myself for having brought it in the first place. I hadn't _meant_ to, honestly, it somehow simply found its way into my overnight bag as I hastily rushed to pack for this visit to the Burrow. Last-minute packing was something I rarely did, mind you, but during the first several days of the winter holiday I had spent little time away from my parents, catching up on all the time we had missed during the summer.

"Harry?" Ginny inquired. "Harry as in Harry Potter?"

"How many Harry's are we familiar with?"

"Goodness, Hermione! Why didn't you tell me? Aren't you going to open it?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, right now."

"Fine, _Mum_ ," I replied teasingly and sighed in defeat. Bringing the box into my lap, I gently removed the bow and tore away the red wrapping, revealing beneath it a dark, unlabeled box. I briefly locked eyes with Ginny, who looked as curious as I was, and removed the cover. When I realized what I was looking at, I gasped.

The interior of the box was lined with red velvet, carefully and beautifully encasing the pair of phoenix feather quills inside. I picked up one, marveling at the rich shade of scarlet and the smoothness of the feather, right down to the artisan-carved tip that was almost golden in appearance. Then I rested it again next to its twin, my mouth hanging open.

"They're quills," Ginny observed, sounding slightly disappointed.

"They're not just any quills, Ginny!" I exclaimed. "These are _phoenix feather_ quills! Do you know how rare phoenixes are? One feather in itself is worth a fortune because they can be used to make the most advanced of healing potions! And—and—he's giving me _two_ of them? I—I can't possibly accept these—"

"Of course you can," Ginny laughed. "You're the brightest witch in all of Hogwarts, Hermione. Why shouldn't you be writing with the best quills available? Wow…" she breathed, sharing my astonishment. "They really are beautiful."

"I know," I replied, my heart pounding in my ears. "But … I can't accept these, Ginny. I'm giving them back to him the second we return."

"So you're telling me the cutest boy in all of Hogwarts is giving you the most beautiful quills that have ever been made and you're going to throw it back in his face?"

"It's not like that," I said. "I could never give him anything of equal value in return!"

"So?"

"So!" I huffed. "Why, the very rules of reciprocity indicate that—"

The youngest Weasley brother then peered his head into the open doorway, giving an exaggerated look of annoyance.

"Happy Christmas," he said. "Isn't it a bit early for you girls to be squealing so loudly? I swear I could hear you all the way upstairs."

"You could _not_ ," Ginny scoffed, but remained excited on the matter nonetheless. "Look what Harry Potter gave Hermione!" Before I could react, Ginny snatched the box from my hands and approached Ron, who took it upon himself to fully enter the room. "They're quills made from phoenix feathers. They're worth a lot!"

"Blimey," said Ron, staring in awe. "Didn't you only just meet this bloke, Hermione?"

"I wouldn't say that … we've been friends for a while. What does that matter, anyway?"

"It seems a bit weird for someone you barely know to get you something like this, doesn't it?"

"I don't _barely know_ him, Ron," I replied defensively.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but instead Ginny said: "Um, I think I'll go help Mum with breakfast. Excuse me." She returned my gift into my hands and swiftly left the room, leaving Ron and I in an uncomfortable stillness. The awkwardness of the resulting silence was almost tangible, hanging thickly in the space between us. He was leaning against the wall, his hands dug deeply into the pockets of his pants and biting on his lower lip.

"Is there are problem, Ronald?" I finally inquired, finding my voice again.

"No," he shrugged, lazily taking a step closer to me.

"Well, something certainly seems to have your wand in a knot this morning."

"Haven't got a wand, remember?" he chuckled humorlessly and sighed before finally taking a seat next to me on the bed, where my bag sat open at my feet. "I was thinking …" he trailed off.

"Spit it out," I urged.

"I was thinking … so Harry Potter gets to give you a gift, but I don't?"

I batted my eyes in perplexity. "What are you going on about?"'

"I'm going on about the fact that Ginny told me that you didn't want me to get you anything, yet some bloke you hardly know gets to treat you like you're the bloody queen of England!"

"Some bloke I hardly know? Who are you to say who I should and shouldn't relate with?"

"I can't look out for a friend? It seems suspect to me. Besides, my dad once told me that the usage of phoenix feathers is regulated by the Ministry—"

"Are you suggesting that Harry gave me illegally obtained items?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying—"

"Then what exactly are you saying, Ronald Weasley?"

"I'm saying—well—I just don't think it's fair that I was told not to get you anything but he was!"

"I didn't _ask_ him for anything, Ron. I don't even know what we're arguing about at this point. You're being utterly ridiculous."

"It's because we're poor, innit?" he asked as if I hadn't spoken. "Think I couldn't afford to get you anything?"

"That is absolutely not what I thought! I was merely being considerate!"

"But you bought me something! How is that fair?"

"That's not the point!"

"What is the point then, Hermione?"

"The point? _The point?_ " I stood up then, glaring him down. "The point is that this conversation is completely and utterly ludicrous. You, Ronald Weasley, are an insensitive prat, and I don't wish to speak to you anymore right now!"

With that, I dropped the phoenix feather quills onto the bed next to where he sat and stormed out of the room, and that day—the twenty-fifth of December, 1993—marked the first of the many rows I would share with Ron Weasley. Only in my later years would I realize that they were a counterproductive method of concealing our true feelings for each other.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

I avoided Ron for the rest of Christmas. Even at breakfast, which occurred a mere twenty minutes following our row, I sat farthest away from him at the dining table and steered clear of any situation that would require even the slightest contact with him. (Even if that meant eating my toast plain—Ron was sitting closest to the marmalade, and I would not even allow myself to ask him to pass it down to me.) Professor Trelawney would most likely attribute my relentless disregard of Ronald Weasley to my being an Earth sign, and therefore inherently stubborn, but I personally preferred a more socially reasonable justification: he was rude to me, and I had no reason to speak to him.

When the _Daily Prophet_ arrived, the front page headline read, in a large, bold font: **Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Chosen To Host The Revival Of The Triwizard Tournament** , and for the rest of the morning Fred and George spoke of nothing else.

"To hell with the law!" said Fred, only when all of the adults, including Percy, were out of earshot. "They can't stop us from entering if we want to!"

"What law?" I asked.

"Didn't you read the paper, Granger?" George said, taking it from his twin. He scrunched his nose in disgust as he searched the front page, finding his desired quote: " _Due to the increasing amount of deaths associated with the Tournament, the tradition was discontinued in 1792. Several attempts at reviving the Tournament proved to be unsuccessful. Only now, in the impending year of 1994, will the legendary event take place once more, but with a controversial new rule: no student under the age of seventeen will be allowed to participate. This law is enforced in hopes of reducing the likeliness of casualties by only permitting students of greater maturity and magical education to enter._ "

I rolled my eyes. "Seems right to me. You've got no business doing something so dangerous if you're not of age."

"Why don't you go snog Ron or something, Granger?" Fred teased in response, and I shot Ginny a nasty glare when she giggled.

"So you really let Ron have it this morning?" she asked that evening when, after dinner, we escaped into her bedroom from overhearing her father begin a lengthy interview with my parents on Muggle dental practice.

"Only after you so conveniently went to 'help Mum with breakfast'."

"I didn't want to be caught in the middle of a lovers' quarrel."

At that, I grabbed my pillow off of my bed and lightly began to hit her sides with it. Ginny squirmed and laughed hysterically, attacking me with her own pillowed blows.

"It—was—not—a—lovers'—quarrel!"

"Yes—it—was!"

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

We continued like that for another few minutes before we thoroughly tired ourselves out. Raising our flags of surrender, we collapsed onto Ginny's bed in a fit of giggles, staring up at the ceiling and not saying anything of value for a long time.

"Hermione," the younger girl finally spoke again after several minutes filled with nothing but our heavy, post-pillow fight breathing. "I'm not saying my brother isn't a prat sometimes, but he really didn't mean any harm. He probably felt a little … I dunno, confused. Ron feels a lot, but he doesn't always know how to say what he feels." I didn't respond for a moment as I was deeply considering her analysis of her older brother, and she added: "He'll come around. He'll apologize before you leave," she said confidently, and true to her prediction, on Boxing Day he knocked on the door to Ginny's room in the early hours of the morning, before the rest of the Burrow began to stir.

"Hermione," he stage whispered behind the closed door. "Hermione, if you're awake, come open the door. I want to talk to you."

Against my better judgment, I was curious what he had to say. I slipped out from beneath the covers and tip-toed across the room so as not to wake the slumbering Ginny (an overcautious decision on my part, for Ginny was a heavy sleeper) and gently creaked the door open halfway. Ron stood there in his familiar pair of Chudley Cannons nightwear (which, by now, looked a tad snug on him) and looked at me with pitiful blue puppy dog eyes. I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Were you already awake?" he asked. "Or did I serve as your alarm clock this morning?"

"I was reading the book my parents gave me for Christmas."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

"Fairy tales," I answered plainly.

"Really? Aren't you a bit old for that?" he asked with a hint of humor. I, however, remained firm. He noticed, and his tentative grin fell.

"They're not the standard watered-down versions you read to children. They teach a lot of valuable life lessons and are made even more interesting by multi-cultural interpretations."

"You can't expect me to understand that," he said. "Being that I'm a—what was that you said?—an insensitive prat?"

"Hmm," I replied, unamused.

"Ugh, Hermioneeee," he whined. "I'm sorry, okay? You didn't talk to me all day yesterday—are you really going to stay mad at me forever?"

"Maybe."

"I'm sorry," he said again, looking even more defeated. "What more can I say? I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that."

"Then why did you?"

"Well …" He eyed me sheepishly. "Considering how close you are with Ginny, you're kind of like family, yeah? I suppose I can't help but be a little … er, _protective_ of family."

"Protective?"

"Yeah. Would you please forgive me?"

Crookshanks, having sensed my absence, hopped down from his position curled up at the foot of my bed and scampered over to Ron's bare feet, where he brushed his tail against his legs and nuzzled his head against his pajama bottoms.

"Aw, would you look at that?" said Ron, and he bent down and gently gathered Crookshanks in his arms, who purred in appreciation at the attention. "Crackpot here forgives me."

"Crookshanks," I corrected.

"Right, Crookshanks. See? He likes me now. I think Crookshanks wants you to forgive me." He then placed the cat's face next to his own and I was assaulted by quite possibly the cutest visual I had ever seen: Ron, with his blue eyes looking especially wide and helpless and a pouted bottom lip, matched with Crookshanks's equally adorable yellow stare.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, and the last of my wall crumbled. I sighed, accepting my defeat, and lowered my arms from my chest. "Forgive me?" he asked eagerly, sensing my weakening exterior.

" _Yes_ ," I grumbled. "It was clever of you to use my cat against me."

"I've been known to have clever moments," he smirked, passing Crookshanks into my arms. "But now that we've made up, I've got to confess something to you. I'm afraid it might make you mad at me all over again."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. See, the thing is … I actually got you a present."

" _What?_ Ugh, Ron, you're impossible!"

"I'm sorry!" he said once more. "I—I waited until the last minute to wrap it because I was so busy helping Mum with everything else. I actually didn't get around to it until yesterday morning—and—and I was almost ready to give it to you, but then I heard you and Ginny squealing about something on my way to get the tape and … well, you know what happened from there."

"So you're telling me that row was literally for nothing?"

"I _did_ sort of want an explanation for why Harry Potter got to give you something but I wasn't! That's why, I—"

"—lied?"

"I never actually said I _didn't_ get you anything. I just wanted to know why I was told not to."

"Ronald Weasley," I said with a huff, shaking my head in disapproval. "I don't understand you in the slightest."

"I was really looking forward to surprising you, but I messed it all up, didn't I?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"I dunno."

"Well …" I sighed, deciding to lessen his guilt, "… I suppose my reaction to our conversation was a bit … er—"

"Dramatic?" Ron offered.

"Is that what you would call it?"

"No!" he backtracked. "I was only saying—"

"I could have handled it better too," I concluded. "Let's leave it at that. Okay?"

"Okay." He looked thoroughly relieved. "Can I give you my present now?"

"Sure."

"Right. Good. Stay right there." The perk was back in his voice, and when I met his eyes I appreciated the glimmer I witnessed in his inviting blue. (Good gods, Ron's eyes really were gorgeous.) He turned in the direction of his bedroom upstairs but stopped suddenly on the second step, coming back to me. "Hey," he said. He brought his hand to the side of my face and tucked a tendril that had strayed from my plait behind my ear: his fingers grazed against my cheek in the process, and the heat that rose there as a result was so instantaneous that I feared Ron would get burned. "Let's never fight again, all right? I don't like it when you're mad at me."

"I don't like it either."

"So let's promise never to row again, okay?"

I smiled at him. "Okay."

"Good," he breathed back at me in response. He smelled of spearmint toothpaste and my knees wobbled slightly.

It was a promise neither of us would be able to keep.

* * *

"Do you not like it?" Harry asked as I held out the box to him.

"Not like it? Of course I _like_ it, Harry, but—you can't think it would be appropriate of me to accept these. I've read that _one_ phoenix feather can go for up to fifty Galleons!"

"Oh," said Harry through a chuckle, a sudden realization breaking out across his flawless face. "To tell you the truth, Hermione, I didn't spend so much as a Knut on those quills."

"I don't understand."

"Did I ever tell you my Granddad Fleamont invented the Sleekeazy Hair Potion?" he began. "He sold the company some years before he died—he went about a year before I was born, actually, so I never knew him—but according to my parents he was quite the character. Apparently after he retired he realized exactly how rich he was and sort of went on a spending spree. He bought all kinds of things he no business with, and—well, let's just say that those quills were among the _less_ extravagant things he purchased. He never even used them. Fresh out of the box, I swear. We've had them forever so I wrote to my parents and asked if I could give them to someone who would actually appreciate them. They thought it was a nice idea."

I flushed, embarrassed at my overreaction. Harry chuckled again and gently pushed the box back into my grip. "They're yours, Hermione," he said, and that was the end of that.

My return to Hogwarts following the winter holiday was otherwise characterized by much hubbub surrounding the recent announcement of the school hosting the Triwizard Tournament the following academic year. The seventh-years moped and complained about the timing of the revival, for their impending graduation meant that they would miss the opportunity to participate. Whispers in the Gryffindor common room detailed Fred and George and Lee Jordan's preparation of aging potions and other deceptive magic to cheat their way around the age law, and Harry openly daydreamed about the Tournament during our periods of doing homework together, all the while Ginny continued to run and hide whenever he came around.

"What kind of tasks do you think they'll put the champions through?" he asked one day as we worked on a Charms essay in the common room. "It could be anything, couldn't it?"

"Yes, and terribly so," I replied flatly. Having been embarrassingly ignorant on the history of the Tournament prior to the announcement, I had taken it upon myself during the first week of the new term to read as much information on it that the library had to offer, and what I learned was beyond disturbing: students eaten alive by beasts, fires, drownings, contraction of diseases, and betrayal among friends—all in the name of earning "eternal glory". I found it barbaric. "The Tournament was discontinued for good reason, Harry. Students were dying left and right. One of the winners from the 1700's even wrote a book about how haunted she was for the rest of her life after she watched another champion get bludgeoned to death by a mountain troll. And what for—being able to hold a fancy cup?"

"That and the money," Harry reasoned. "But there's some good in it too, surely."

"I've read that the justification behind the revival is to promote international cooperation. Still …" I turned to Harry, who was idly brushing the feather of his quill against his face, paying no attention to his half-written essay. "Harry," I began again, concerned, "please tell me you're not thinking of teaming up with the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan to try to find a way around the age restriction."

"What? No, of course I'm not," he assured me. "It would be cool, though, wouldn't it?"

"No, Harry, it really would not be."

Harry, noticing my distress, gave a small laugh and scooted closer to me on the sofa. He reached a hand out to my shoulder, which he squeezed lightly in comfort. "You're right. Leave the dangerous stuff to the older students, yeah?" he said, and I nodded in agreement.

I went upstairs for bed sometime later, and was greeted by the sight of two of my roommates, Parvati and Lavender, speaking animatedly while sitting on Lavender's bed. It was an odd occurrence, as during the two previous academic years I had shared quarters with them, I was fortunate enough to always be either the last or the first to go to bed, effectively avoiding any of the obligatory awkward chatter between the girls who had, for the most part, been indifferent to my existence.

Lavender Brown was a pureblood girl who carried herself with a sort of romantic bubbliness that either struck a person with endearment or annoyance; there was little in between. She was an attractive young witch who, even in her early teens, was shapely built with flawless ivory skin and dark blonde hair that fell to the small of her back in exquisite ringlets, which she often accessorized with ribbons, butterfly clips, and headbands. On weekends when we were not obligated to wear uniforms, her casual attire consisted almost exclusively of pink.

Her best friend, Parvati Patil, while less prone to such prominent displays of femininity, was equally attractive in her physical appearance. Also pureblood, her and her twin sister Padma (a Ravenclaw) were both dark, olive-skinned girls with straight ebony hair that cascaded nearly to their waists. The Patil twins and Lavender were easily among the most beautiful girls in our year, and some of the boys had definitely begun to notice.

"Hi," I said curtly as I entered the dormitory and crossed the room to my bed.

"Her-my-oh-knee!" Lavender enunciated the syllables of my name in her high-pitched sing-song voice, turning in her bed to look at me. "We were just talking about you."

"You were?"

"Yes," she said, giggling. "Ever since word has gotten out that Hogwarts is hosting the Triwizard Tournament, we were wondering if you and Harry Potter were … you know, _a thing_."

"A thing?" I asked, raising my brow. "What does that have to do with the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Surely you must know about the tradition of the Yule Ball?" asked Parvati excitedly. "Since we'll be fourth-years next term we'll get to go!"

"Well, of course I _read_ about it, but—"

"So then is Harry going to take you?" Lavender interrupted.

"Isn't it a bit early to be worrying about dates and such? I mean none of the Tournament festivities even _start_ until we get back from the summer holiday."

"It's never too early to start thinking about these kinds of things," Parvati insisted. "Are you and Harry Potter a thing or not? Everyone's noticed how often you two hang out and he _is_ one of the cutest boys in our year, so naturally people think—"

"We're _friends_ ," I said firmly. "And it's not like you need to be romantically involved with whoever you take. Ever heard of 'going-together-as-friends'?"

"But that's so _boring_ , Hermione!" Lavender squealed. "Why call it a date if it isn't actually a date?"

"I'm not even sure if I'll want to go," I confessed, sighing. "One of you can ask Harry if you want to."

"Come off it, Hermione," said Parvati. "We know you're more into books than boys, but surely there's _someone_ you'd be interested in going with. If it isn't Harry Potter, then who?"

I flushed and turned away from the girls, briefly wondering if, assuming I properly requested it, I could possibly bring an appropriately-aged Squib to the ball …

"No one," I finally said, and the girls huffed in dissatisfaction. Before they could pester me any further on the matter, I settled into bed and pulled the crimson privacy curtains closed for good measure. Turning over, I reached beneath my pillows and pulled forward the item that had been the object of my attention for many nights since the start of this term: Ron's Christmas gift to me, a red photo album with an elegant gold design on the spine and cover, empty except for a single picture of Ron, Ginny, and I taken on Boxing Day.

"It reminded me of when you were here during the summer," Ron had said upon giving it to me. "Remember that morning when we looked at photo albums for a long time? It was nice, so I thought to get you one of your own so you could store all of our memories together—or, you know, whoever you want to include. It's yours, after all."

One of the first things I had done once the rest of the Burrow had awoken was ask Mr. Weasley to take a picture of us. I was in the middle, Ginny (glad to see that Ron and I had made up) on my right, and Ron on my left. The image captured Ginny's dazzling smile and my prominent toothed, less attractive one, while Ron gave his handsome lopsided grin and turned his head slightly to look at me.

I found myself looking at it every night since returning to Hogwarts, thinking fondly of how many more wonderful memories would be stored in this album. Tonight was no different, and I stared at it for a few more seconds before tucking it beneath one of my pillows again and falling asleep, my dreams filled with images of a ginger-haired boy with dazzling blue eyes, and how they would glow even brighter when he placed his hands on my waist to dance with me ...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

My parents surprising me with a summer holiday in France came as both an exciting and bittersweet event. It meant more time with my parents, obviously, but it also entailed the absence of my friends. I wrote to Ron, Ginny, and Harry whenever I got a chance, which proved to be a feat in itself seeing that my parents had me jumping to and from virtually every major attraction the country had to offer. My French skills did improve dramatically in the process; by the time we returned to England I would almost consider myself semi-fluent.

The second we made it home, a week before I was due back at Hogwarts, I wrote to Ginny asking when it would be convenient for us to meet up. We met at Diagon Alley a few days later with the intention of doing our back-to-school shopping together, but really we spent the first few hours together experimenting with new flavors in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and catching up on the time we missed while I was abroad. Ron was there too, despite previously telling me he wasn't fond of the crowded bustle of the area, and I smiled to myself at the thought that he came simply because he knew it would be one of his last opportunities to see me for several months.

"How was the Quidditch World Cup?" I asked as I scooped some ice cream into my mouth.

"Oh, it was brilliant! I wish you could have been there," Ginny remarked. "Bulgaria didn't stand a chance."

"Ireland may have won, but Krum is still the most brilliant player to have ever lived," Ron said firmly.

"Yes, did I mention Ron's boyfriend Viktor Krum?" the younger girl joked. "They've been in love for some time now—Ron even purchased a little doll version of him!"

"It's a collectible action figure," Ron insisted.

"It's a _doll_."

"Whatever," he replied, rolling his eyes. "You two don't even realize how lucky you are that you get to practically _live_ with him this year!"

I furrowed my brow, confused. "What do you mean, Ron?"

"He's a student at Durmstrang, Hermione!" Ron explained. "That means he'll be coming to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. No doubt he'll enter too—he's so brilliant and brave and—"

"You're saying that one of the most famous Quidditch players is still school-aged?" I interrupted, incredulous.

Ron nodded excitedly. "Yes. He's only eighteen: the youngest player to ever participate in the World Cup. I also read somewhere that—oh god," he said suddenly, frowning, "—I'm starting to sound like _you_ , Hermione."

Gasping in mock offense, I gently punched Ron on his arm as all three of us guffawed at his comment. Before we left the parlor to rejoin the others, I had Ginny snap a picture of Ron and I with a shimmering mustache of Earl Grey and Lavender ice cream smeared across our upper lips, which was later lovingly stored in the album Ron had given me.

For the first time that I could remember, the beginning of school came too quickly for my liking, and it was with reluctance that I made myself pull away from Ron when it was time to board the Hogwarts Express. "Hermione," he said. "I hope this doesn't put me back on your 'insensitive prat' list, but, I was wondering … if you happen to get close enough to Krum … do you think you could get his autograph for me?"

"I'll see what I can do," I replied, and his resulting smile lit up the entire platform.

Hogwarts was in a state of perpetual excitement throughout the firm two months of term. The eligible older students of Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic were scheduled to arrive on the thirtieth of October, and the following night—Halloween—the champions would be chosen from the Goblet of Fire, the traditional method of determining the most worthy champions from each school.

The young women of the French Beauxbatons school proved to be an instant source of distraction for the helpless boys of Hogwarts. One in particular caused every male to turn their heads in admiration: a girl of impressive height and figure, tall and willowy like a flower. Her silver blonde hair fell in a cascade of waves to her waist, and the deep blueness of her eyes rivaled even Ron's. Her full, pink lips formed an attractive pout and her skin was fair and flawless—rumor had it she was of partial Veela ancestry, and I didn't doubt it; she _was_ exceptionally beautiful. It never failed to disgust me, though, how otherwise rational boys would be reduced to Neanderthal-like states at the mere sight of an attractive girl—even Harry nearly tripped over his own feet on several occasions as we passed her in the halls. The male students of Beauxbatons were of similar attractiveness in their polished appearance, but Ginny and I never drooled by simply being near them!

Contrastingly, the Durmstrang students from Scandinavia were equally fascinating in their appearance, but for different reasons. They wore thick, fur uniforms of dark browns, blues, blacks, and reds. The girls wore their hair pulled back in tight buns while the boys had short, clean cuts—and while none of them looked particularly _unfriendly_ , there was an intimidating aspect to their presence that ensured no one even accidentally bumped into them while walking. Ginny pointed out Viktor Krum to me the second he walked through the doors of the Great Hall on the night of the their arrival: he was the oldest looking eighteen-year-old I had ever seen; towering in height with a thin, muscular build and dark eyes. His deep brown (almost black) hair was trimmed close to his scalp, but his equally dark brows were bushy and overgrown. Ginny assured me of his gracefulness on a broomstick, but interestingly enough there was an awkward aggressiveness to his long stride. While not considerably _unattractive_ , he was grumpy-looking and not exactly handsome either. That, of course, did not prevent an ever-present crowd of giggling girls from following him wherever he went.

Harry had invited me to watch the eligible students enter their names into the goblet with him, but I had essays that needed writing and had no time to waste on such matters. Apparently it turned out to be quite a show: the Age Line that Dumbledore drew around the goblet repelled Fred and George's attempt to cross it after taking an Aging Potion; they ended up in the Hospital Wing for two days with a ghastly case of white hair and premature wrinkles. (Lee Jordan, their best friend, apparently waited to see the result of the twins' attempt before trying it on his own, thus avoiding the same embarrassment.)

On Halloween night, the Goblet of Fire erupted with the names of the three champions: from Durmstrang, the famous Viktor Krum (I'd have to congratulate Ron on his accurate prediction in my next letter to him), the part-Veela girl, Fleur Delacour, from Beauxbatons, and finally, representing Hogwarts, was Cedric Diggory. A popular and exceptionally handsome Hufflepuff, the announcement of his name drew applause from every House.

"His father works at the Ministry," Ginny whispered to me. "They met up with us at the World Cup. He's really nice—like, _really_ nice considering how good-looking he is. You'd think he'd be arrogant, but he isn't."

"A true Hufflepuff indeed," I concluded.

Unlike the majority of the Hogwarts population, I did not allow the presence of our foreign friends to distract me from my studies. My usual work routine remained uninterrupted and I encouraged Ginny and Harry to follow my example (even if I could still never get them in the same room at the same time due to Ginny's persistent shyness around him). A particular Friday afternoon occurring a couple of weeks after the champion selection I spent with Harry in the library. Harry, while excited about witnessing the events of the Tournament, was sore about the cancellation of the Inter-House Quidditch games for the year that came with it, and he spent most of his spare time with me that would usually be occupied with practice on the pitch. The first task was to occur near the end of November and the school was alive with whispers of what the event would entail; the silence of the library was especially comforting now.

"Hermione," Harry said softly to me from across our usual table. "You know that feeling people get when they think someone is staring at them?"

"Yes," I said.

"Are you feeling that right now?"

I looked up from my essay and eyed my friend with concern. "No?"

"Well, you should," Harry replied, attempting to keep a casual face. "Don't look now, but _he's_ been staring at you since we got here."

"Who's been staring at me?"

" _Him._ "

"Who's him?"

"That bloke from Durmstrang—the famous one!"

"Who are you talking—?" I made a move to turn my head in the direction that Harry had glanced, but he tugged on my sleeve from across the table.

" _Don't look now!_ " he insisted, a hint of amusement dripping from his words.

"Why not?"

"I don't want him to know I was talking about him; he doesn't look like the friendly type. He's sitting about three tables over. If you stand up and pretend you're getting another book or something, you'll notice him."

"Honestly, Harry, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" Harry asked with an upward twitch of his brow. He smirked mischievously. "Here," he said, passing me one of the books we had gathered, "would you put this book back for me? Pretty please with sugar and treacle tart on top?"

Deciding to humor him, I picked up the book and stood up from the table, turning my back to him as I headed toward the appropriate bookshelf. In the process, I ever-so-subtlety turned my head toward the tables near the opposite wall. There were some other studying students scattered about, but there was no mistaking that this individual in particular was not there to study books: Viktor Krum, with not a single piece of reading material in front of him, facing the direction of the table I shared with Harry, his stare dark and intense.

His eyes flickered to me and for one heart-stopping second we made eye contact, after which I hid behind the nearest bookshelf for several minutes.

* * *

The first task involved dragons. _Dragons._ Fully grown, flying, fire breathing dragons! I was terrified throughout most of it, to be honest, having never encountered creatures of such size and strength in all of my years in the magical world, and several times I did end up clutching Harry's arm and hiding my head behind his shoulder in fright. Ginny was sitting several rows away in the spectator seats with Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom, having told me that we would catch up after the event. The results were close but definite: Krum coming in first with forty points, Diggory second with thirty-eight, and Delacour third with thirty-five. The entire Durmstrang population cheered on their way back to the castle.

"It's sort of bothers me, to tell you the truth!" Harry later confessed to me in a hushed tone. It was a Saturday, a few days following the first task, and, for the fourth time, our study session was being spied upon by the dark gaze of Viktor Krum. "I mean he looks at _you_ like you're that bloody dragon egg he had to grab, but then he looks at _me_ like I'm—"

"—competition?" I completed. "You've told me this before, Harry, but it's absurd. There's absolutely no way that he of all people would be interested in … _me_. At least not for the reasons that you're implying."

He rolled his eyes. "Hermione, you're the smartest person I know, but I swear sometimes you don't see what's right in front of you." He shoved his parchment into one of his textbooks. "I'll see you in the common room, okay?"

"All right. See you later, Harry."

I continued my work for the next half hour following Harry's departure, even as the library slowly started clearing out as lunch time approached. Viktor Krum, however, stayed, and the feeling of his stare burning into the side of my face several tables over grew more and more intense with every passing minute.

Finally, I turned to face him, meeting his hard stare full on. "You know, it's considered rude to stare at people."

He blinked rapidly at the realization that he was caught, and for a moment, as I took in the shock of his expression, I almost felt bad for being so sharp. He approached and sat directly across from me, and there was a ghost of a smile playing with rough features.

"I am sorry," he said, his thick Bulgarian accent sprinkled over the soft words. "I do not wish to make you uncomfortable." He seemed to struggle slightly with the words and, noticing my frown, added: "You will have to pardon my accent. English is not my native tongue."

"Oh, no!" I squeaked nervously. "That's not what I was thinking at all." I looked down at my book as my face heated up; I set my quill down and brushed my hair behind my shoulders.

"That quill," he said, motioning to it, "it is very nice."

"Y-Yes," I said. "Er, it's a phoenix feather. A friend gave it to me as a gift."

"The boy with the glasses?" he inquired. I finally plucked up the courage to look up at him again. "I notice you are with him often."

"Well—yes, he gave it to me. He's one of my best friends."

"It is nice to have such closeness with other people." His lips curved upward in a smile, and all at once he looked a million times kinder. "So … is he a boyfriend?"

" _No._ We're just friends."

"Ah." He brought his hand up to his chin, where he idly played with the small dark hairs that grew there. "And you like the books, I see?"

"Yes, I've always been an avid reader."

"I wish I could show you the library at Durmstrang, then," he said enthusiastically. "It's a million times bigger than this one—not to boast, of course. Overall our castle is smaller than Hogwarts, but our library is impressive."

"I don't think I'd be very welcome at Durmstrang," I said sadly, shaking my head.

"Why not?"

"Isn't it true that Durmstrang doesn't admit Muggle-borns?"

"Oh, well, yes that is true," he said, frowning. "And you are Muggle-born?" I nodded, and he lowered his hand from his face and regarded me curiously. "That is an ancient rule put in place by the founders of Durmstrang. We've been trying to have it changed for years … it's a long process. But I assure you, we are a good sort ... I'm Viktor, by the way. Viktor Krum." He extended his hand to me—his large, bear claw of a hand—which I took gingerly, and his warm fingers nearly crushed my daintier ones.

"Yes, I know. You were very impressive in the first task."

"Thank you ... And what is your name?" he added when I said nothing.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, embarrassing myself with every utterance. I took my hand back and nervously played with my hair again. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."

He twitched his brow. " _Hermy-own_."

" _Her-my-oh-knee_ ," I tried.

"Herm-own-ninny."

I grinned at his better attempt. "Right."

"That is a very beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."

Oh, how my face must have looked. "Thank you," I managed to say. "It's Shakespearean. Although I'm not sure that's why my parents named me it … I've never really asked them, now that I think of it. But then again I doubt children spend much time pondering on why their parents named them whatever they named them. Um …"

"Listen, Herm-own-ninny," he said, saving me from starting a ramble. "I do not wish to come off as too forward, but I am very interested in getting to know you. Perhaps we could speak sometime outside of the library?"

I agreed, and I couldn't stop grinning for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Damn, I'm sorry!" Harry said as he stepped on foot for the second time.

"Don't curse, Harry," I said. "And it's fine, you're still learning."

"Hermione, the Yule Ball is only a few weeks away, I haven't got time to learn!"

"Rubbish. Besides, your dancing skills or lack thereof aren't even going to matter if you don't get around to asking someone!"

Harry frowned and looked away from me. "Right …"

"Harry?" I said. "Is something wrong?"

"The truth is I _did_ ask someone a few days ago. But she already has a date. Cho Chang. She's going with Cedric Diggory."

"Oh—Oh, Harry," I said, rubbing his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm sure she would have said yes if she hadn't already committed to someone else."

"It's okay," he shrugged. "I'll find someone before it's time." He looked up at me again with a glimmer of humor on his face. "But then there's _you_ , Miss Granger—you go and get a date and you won't even tell me!"

"I've told you this before: it's not that I don't want to tell you, it's that I don't want to say for sure he's my date until I _know_ he is. I haven't even sent in the request yet to Dumbledore and then I need to actually go and ask _him_ —"

"Why would you need to approve it with Dumbledore?"

"He doesn't go to Hogwarts. He's a Squib, you see; he's one of the brothers of—" I stopped short and turned my head as a group of third-years walked into the common room from the portrait hole, among them being Ginny talking to Colin Creevey.

"Ginny!" I exclaimed, seizing my opportunity. I approached her, and, grabbing her by the hand, pulled her toward Harry and I. Ginny eyed me with confusion and shot an apologetic glance at Colin, who muttered a quick "see you later, Ginny" before walking upstairs toward the dormitories. "Harry, you know my dear friend Ginny Weasley, right? Ginny's a _great_ dancer." Ginny crinkled her brows in the _I am?_ sort of way, but I continued before she could object: "She taught me everything I know, as a matter of fact. I have an appointment to make, but I'm sure she'd be happy to help you prepare for the ball. Right, Ginny?"

"Oh … erm, sure!" she said.

Luckily, Harry didn't seem suspicious—or if he did he decided not to show it. He smiled at the younger girl. "All right, cool. See you later, Hermione."

I grabbed my winter jacket from where it hung on one of the coat hangers by the portrait hole and slipped out, briefly looking back to admire my doing: finally, Harry and Ginny were talking; Ginny laughed about something that he said, and when he placed his hand on her waist to begin their supposed dancing practice, her smile was brighter than I had ever seen it.

Despite my impromptu approach to getting Harry and Ginny to start communicating, the "appointment" excuse I had mentioned was, in fact, legitimate: I had agreed to meet Viktor in the Clock Tower Courtyard for our usual walk around the castle grounds. It was our third planned get-together since the first time we spoke in the library a couple of weeks earlier. We met secretly in various parts of the castle to avoid his fangirls—we usually got a good hour or so together until they found him and followed in a giggling trail several feet behind us. I did take advantage of the opportunity to ask him for his autograph for Ron, but other than that, his fame or the Tournament were not a subject of our conversations.

I liked Viktor. There was definitely more to him than being a famous Quidditch player, a Triwizard champion, or an admirable student of Durmstrang. During the hours we had spent together walking through the grounds, I had come to find him a highly ambitious, intelligent, and family-oriented young man. He wasn't particularly loquacious; mostly he liked to listen to me talk—but when he did speak he made it clear that he was genuinely interested in every little thing I had to say. He offered me the sort of attention I had never received from a boy—not even Ron or Harry—and I admittedly felt somewhat overwhelmed by it. We had a lot in common too: both being only children with strong desires to succeed both academically and career-wise.

I met him in the corner of one of the covered pathways and he greeted me with a cool utterance of my name: "Hullo, Herm-own-ninny." It was cute, really—the way his Bulgarian tongue couldn't quite wrap around my name, no matter how hard he tried. We began walking on the snow-covered grass outside, and twice his glove-covered hand brushed against my own. "Are you cold?" he eventually asked. "You can have my robe, if you wish."

"That's okay, Viktor. I'm fine, really."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"All right." He smiled, stopping to look at me. "Herm-own-ninny," he said, "I am afraid I have put off something of great importance for far too long. May I be honest with you?"

"Okay," I gulped.

He reached out and took my left hand in his own, running his fingers along my pink mitten. "I like you, Herm-own-ninny. I like you a lot. And I was wondering, if no one has already asked you, would you like to be my date to the ball?"

"Oh— _oh_ ," I gasped, my heart pounding in my ears. "Viktor, that's … that's so very kind of you. But—" I fished through my brain, looking for an appropriate way to word my excuse, "—someone has already asked me. I asked him, actually. And, well—"

"I see," said Viktor, disappointment etched across his face. "It is my fault for not asking you earlier. He is a lucky man."

"I'm sorry."

We made our way back to the castle in silence after that, and when it was time for us to depart he turned and addressed me once more: "Herm-own-ninny, if it is not too much to ask, if your chosen date does not come through would you consider me as a backup?"

"I—um—okay, Viktor," I said. "All right."

"Good," he said, a bit of brightness returning to his face. "This man you are taking, is it your friend Harry Potter?"

"No."

"Is he someone you're … romantically involved with?" he asked awkwardly.

I blushed. "… No." That wasn't a total lie, was it? Ron and I _were_ , at the moment, just friends, regardless of some of the moments we had shared two summers ago.

"In that case," Viktor said lowly, "I hope it is okay for me to do this." And he leaned forward and brushed his lips against the side of my cheek, marking me with a chaste yet firm kiss. His cool breath smelled of mint and his small patch of facial hair tickled me. He slowly pulled back and looked at me, taking in my flushed expression. I was a fifteen-year-old homely Gryffindor girl and one of the most famous Quidditch players in the world had just kissed my cheek—yet he looked at me like I was a princess adorned in the finest robes and jewelry, and we were both so lost in the moment that neither of us noticed the small flicker of camera a few meters away from us, nor did we hear the satisfied giggle of an older blonde woman with tight curls, sharply manicured nails, and rhinestone-studded spectacles.

* * *

 _To: Headmaster Dumbledore  
_ _From: Granger, Hermione Jean. Gryffindor, Year 4  
_ _Date: Sunday, 17 December 1994  
_ _Subject: Yule Ball guest_

 _Professor Dumbledore, it is my wish to bring a non-student to the Yule Ball as my date. He is a fourteen–year-old Squib and is the brother of Fred, George, and Ginevra Weasley. I am capable of independently arranging his transportation and I can vouch for his good character and behavior. I am of good academic and behavioral standing and would greatly appreciate my request being granted. Thank you for your time and consideration._

 _Hermione Granger_

I carefully folded the parchment and placed it in an envelope, scolding myself for waiting so long to finally get around to writing it. I couldn't help it, really, with most of free time being torn between homework, helping Harry with his dance skills, writing to Ron, or being with Viktor. Regardless, I doubted that Dumbledore would deny my request, and I was confident in officially asking Ron when I saw him at Hogsmeade today. It was the last permitted Hogsmeade weekend before the ball and I had no time to waste.

Admittedly, I felt a little guilty about having lied to Viktor about already having my date secured. He was, after all, the first person to ask me directly, and according to all of my personal standards of etiquette I should have agreed—but I really wanted to go with Ron, and I had wanted to go with Ron since I had first heard of the ball last term. It wasn't a _complete_ lie to say I had already done something that I was planning to do anyway, right?

Smiling, I quickly made my way to the staff mailbox room, where I submitted my request before meeting up with Ginny in the Entrance Courtyard.

"There you are," she said. "Thought you weren't coming for a moment."

"Where's Harry?"

"Said he couldn't make it today," she shrugged. "He's neglected a ton of homework this past week."

"Probably due to all of your extra dancing lessons, right?" I smirked at her, wriggling my eyebrows. "I'm glad to see you've finally gotten over your shyness around him. I bet he'll ask you to the ball too!"

"Oh, well, about that …" she said, "He actually did ask me, but I've already agreed to go with someone else."

" _What?_ When did this happen?"

"A few days ago. You had already gone to bed and we were chatting in the common room and … yeah, it happened. But Neville asked me a few days earlier and—well—I wasn't going to say no to an opportunity to go the ball, since third-years aren't allowed without an older date …"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Are you kidding, Hermione? This is the first time we've hung out in days considering you're disappearing every five minutes to go snog a certain famous Quidditch player—"

"I have _not_ snogged him."

"Mmm-hmm," Ginny hummed skeptically, shaking her head. "Come on, Ron said he'd meet us at Honeydukes."

By the time we made it to the village and entered the sweets shop, the steadily falling snow had slowly lessened and the sun illuminated Hogsmeade in a brilliant light. I eagerly walked through the door of Honeydukes with Ginny trailing behind me, searching through the crowded rows of sweets until I found the ginger I was looking for: his back was turned to us, examining a box of toffees.

"Ron!" I shouted, unable to restrain myself. He turned and—at the risk of being repetitive—he actually looked even taller than the last time I had seen him, as if he were on this never-ceasing growth spurt. His hair was nearly touching his shoulders now and he pushed his overgrown fringe to the side to get a better look at me and—bless me, his eyes were _gorgeous_ —he immediately set down the candy and rushed forward to greet us.

"Hey, you!" he said, crushing me against his broad chest. "Gods, I've missed you!"

"And who am I, our Great Aunt Tessie?" said Ginny.

"And of course I missed you too, little sister," Ron added, hugging Ginny as well.

"Ron, you look … _good_ ," I settled on the adjective after sizing him up: even through his thick winter clothes, he looked fit and more grown into his body. Even his skin, while still considerably pale, gave off this sort of glow that could only be associated with good health.

"Yeah, Muggle football and doing all of the housework without magic will do that to a bloke … Where are Fred and George?"

"Detention, of course," Ginny replied. "Some prank they pulled on Professor Snape."

"Those two," he said disapprovingly, his eyes staying on me the entire time.

Ginny must have noticed, for she added in a slow and suggestive manner: "Listen, you two. I think I fancy some Licorice Wands. Why don't I meet you at the Three Broomsticks? I shouldn't be too long."

"All right," Ron said eagerly, and Ginny smirked at me before walking past us. "Ready, Hermione?"

He held open the door for me as we exited the shop and walked side-by-side to the pub, where we snagged a vacant table before the roaring fireplace and ordered butterbeers. He sat next to me, even helping me out of my jacket and holding my chair out for me. This was perfect: the cozy fire, the pleasant winter morning, the warm, foamy liquid rushing down our gullets … and _he_ was perfect too, looking so exquisitely handsome with the light from the fireplace dancing against his red hair, giving it a golden glow. And his dazzling blue eyes, of course, looking me up and down like I was the only person on earth worth looking at. At that moment, if anyone had asked me who Viktor Krum was, I wouldn't have had a coherent answer.

"Did you make it here all right?" I asked.

"Yeah, the post office has an open Floo network. Made it here fine."

"Good, that's very good."

"I'm sorry I couldn't meet you any of the other Hogsmeade weekends," he said apologetically. "But between football practice and chess club tournaments and everything else, my weekends have been pretty booked."

"No, I understand, Ron," I assured him. "I'm so proud of you for getting into sports. It's really … er, it's really done you good." I forced myself to tear my eyes away from his chest. "Speaking of sports…" I reached into my pocket and produced a small, folded piece of parchment, "… I've got something I think you're going to like." I unfolded the paper and read aloud: " _For Ron Weasley, my biggest fan in the entire world. Viktor Krum._ "

"Are you serious?" Ron exclaimed, taking the paper from my hands. He looked at it, mouthing the words to himself again and again, his eyes growing wide in amazement. "You got him to make it out to me and everything!"

"Of course I did. I told you I'd see what I could do."

"Well, you do a lot!" He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. "Thank you so, _so_ much, Hermione. I love you for this. You're the most wonderful person ever. What's he like?"

"Oh, he's … nice," I said carefully. "He's really not what you'd expect a famous Quidditch player to be like. He's actually very down-to-earth."

"Really?" he asked. His face was still very close to mine; I could detect the warmth of the butterbeer still present on his lips, and, for one glorious moment, I was quite sure he was going to kiss me …

The front door of the pub suddenly burst open with a gush of wind, and Fred and George Weasley walked in, looking rather triumphant in whatever feat they had just accomplished. They spotted us almost immediately and came to our table.

"Why, hello there, little brother," said Fred.

"And our future sister-in-law," George sniggered. "Fancy seeing you two here."

"Shouldn't you be in detention?" I snapped.

"Filch was overseeing it, so of course we blew some Instant Darkness Powder and got the hell out of there," Fred explained proudly. "Figure we have a good couple of hours before we get caught."

"Even had a chance to grab some last-minute breakfast as we rushed out—" said George.

"—which is where we came across a most interesting piece in today's _Prophet_ ," Fred completed. "Ron, you didn't see it?"

"No. I had breakfast and came straight here; didn't wait for the paper," said Ron.

"Nor you, Granger?" inquired George.

"Um … no," I answered suspiciously.

"Oh dear," said Fred in faux-distress. "This is an awkward situation then, isn't it, George? Should we show them?"

"I dunno, Fred. It might ruin their little date."

"It's _not_ a date," Ron insisted. "We're just waiting for Ginny to come from Honeydukes, as a matter of fact."

"Not a date, you say, Ronnie?" Fred teased. "In that case, George, I suppose we could show them."

"They're bound to find out soon, anyway, yeah? You're right, Fred, we might as well show them now—"

"Show us _what_!?" I finally said.

Grinning from ear to ear, Fred reached into the large pocket of his coat and produced a folded up copy of the _Daily Prophet,_ which he then proceeded to flatten out before slamming it down on the table in front of us. A very unpleasant sound—something between a gasp and a yelp—caught in my throat, and my hands covered my mouth in shock. There, on the front page, was a picture of me— _me_ —with Viktor Krum at my side, leaning forward and kissing my cheek in the Entrance Courtyard of Hogwarts. The title above the image read: **Love at the Trwizard Tournament: An Exclusive Report on the Girl Who Has Stolen Viktor Krum's Heart.**

" _What?_ " I gasped, disgusted. "What?—How?— _What?_ This isn't even news! Who on earth wrote—?" But all of my questions were answered the second I zoned in on the smaller text that read "by Rita Skeeter", perhaps the most infamous wizarding journalist in all of Britain. Her written words alone had ruined careers, caused divorces, and created so much unnecessary drama amongst wizarding society that how she still got work was beyond me.

I decided to read the opening paragraph of the article aloud, bracing myself for the worst: " _When one thinks about the kind of girl that would arouse the interest of beloved Quidditch player Viktor Krum, Miss Hermione Granger of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is not one that comes to mind. An ambitious but decidedly plain fifteen-year-old Muggle-born girl of Gryffindor, Granger has quite clearly taken a liking to the attention of the famous bachelor. "She's a rather quiet girl. She keeps to herself and her small group of friends," one anonymous classmate speaks of her. "She's a bit arrogant, if you ask me. She's smart and she knows it, and she lets it get to her head."_ ("Who said that?" I exclaimed.) _Perhaps this similar drive for achievement is what drew the attention of Krum to begin with. However, this budding romance between the two comes as surprise to other classmates, many of whom were under the impression that the young girl was romantically involved with a Mr. Harry Potter, the only child of James and Lily Potter, key players in the downfall of Lord Voldemort in the early 1980's. "They are together nearly all the time," another Hogwarts student comments. "Everyone thinks they're together—so it came as quite a shock to see that she's apparently got something going on with Krum." Is this simply a misunderstanding, or a case of deception on Granger's part?"_

I stopped there, feeling very much that the butterbeer I had recently consumed would rise from my stomach. I glanced at Ron, who looked even more horrified than I was, and then back up at the twins, still hovering over us. To my further shock, however, instead of the satisfied smirks I expected to see on their expressions, their grins actually fell, a look of discomfort coming about them—almost as if they sensed, by the look on Ron and I's faces, that surprising us with this most unpleasant news was going a bit too far.

"Erm, you said Ginny was in Honeydukes, didn't you, Ron?" asked Fred. "Let's go catch up with her, George. We'll see you two later." They were gone in a matter of seconds, leaving behind a dreaded awkward silence that hung above Ron and I like a rain cloud.

My eyes lingered on the paper, where the image of Viktor kissing me played and replayed itself again and again for the entire world to see. "That woman," I said harshly. "She had no business being on Hogwarts grounds! I swear, I have half a mind to report her to Dumbledore. She writes vile pieces of little journalistic value. And to think—to think she probably paid off some students to spy on us and say those things—"

"So is it true?" asked Ron suddenly in an angry, biting tone. "Is it true that you've—" he glanced at the title again, "—stolen his heart? Did you get his autograph for me before or after you were done snogging him?"

"Ron, I did _not_ snog Viktor. I've never snogged anyone."

"Are you sure about that? Because according to this article you have a line of gentlemen callers waiting on you, don't you? First this Harry bloke, and now Krum—"

" _Ronald_ ," I began, attempting to keep my voice low in the crowded pub, "I've told you countless times that Harry and I are friends. _Just friends._ And as for Viktor—we're friends too—"

"Hermione, you can't possibly think I'm that thick! Blokes and birds aren't 'just friends'—at least not like that!" he said, motioning to the _Prophet_. "Yeah, that doesn't look like just friendly behavior to me, does it? What are you thinking? He's way too old for you!"

"Too old for me? Is that honestly what you think? Ron, he's only eighteen—"

"And you're only fifteen! I mean, I know it's only three years, but right now that's actually a big gap in maturity—"

"Maturity? Really now, you think I'm not mature enough for him? I can take care of myself! You're not my bloody father!"

"That's not what I meant and you know it. I'm only saying that it's obvious that _he_ has only one thing on his mind."

"He hasn't made _one_ inappropriate advancement toward me, if that's what you're worried about."

"But he has made advancements toward you then?"

"That's—that's none of your business!"

"It is my business if you're my friend and some older bloke is trying to take advantage of you!"

"Ugh! You're—you're—I can't even find the right words to describe you, Ronald Weasley!"

"Insensitive prat? Arsehole? Git, perhaps? Why am I being made out to be the bad guy for trying to protect you?"

"It's not your job to protect me!"

" _Fine_ ," he spat, standing up. He threw his autograph down on the _Prophet,_ yanked his coat from the back of his chair, and put it on, staring down at me fiercely. "Don't listen to me. But when he breaks your heart don't come crying to me. Keep that bloody autograph, by the way—I don't want it if it has his germs all over it. I hope you and _Vicky_ have fun. Tell Ginny and the twins I said goodbye—I'm Flooing home."

" _Fine_ ," I replied just as harshly, and my eyes followed him as he left the pub, slamming the door behind him.

By the time I got back to my dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, an envelope with my name written neatly across the front was already waiting for me on my bed:

 _Miss Granger, after reviewing your academic and behavioral records, I deem it appropriate for you to be permitted to bring a guest to the Yule Ball. Please remember that both you and your guest are still a reflection of the school, and any rule-breaking or poor behavior will result in disciplinary action and a loss of this privilege in the future._

 _Professor Dumbledore_

I ripped the letter into a dozen pieces and threw them away, angry tears falling down my reddened face during the entire short process.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

I did not write to Ron about the Yule Ball, nor did I write to him about the events of the second task, in which I, along with Cho Chang and Gabrielle Delacour (the younger sister of Fleur Delacour), were taken hostage for the champions to rescue, nor did I write to him when the third and final task approached and Viktor Krum unsurprisingly won the Triwizard Tournament.

Naturally, it was with some caution that I accepted Ginny's invitation to spend the first few weeks of summer with her—not that I didn't want to spend time with my friend, of course, but that being at the Burrow would inherently involve contact with Ron, which I still wasn't entirely sure I was ready to do. However, that didn't stop him from attempting to reach out to me only hours after I had arrived: I was sitting on my usual guest bed in Ginny's room, reading, while Ginny had gone downstairs to assist Mrs. Weasley with dinner, refusing my offer to help because I "do too much already." Crookshanks followed her, as he had taken a particular liking to curling up on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.

Ron knocked on the half-open door. "Can I come in, Hermione?"

When I didn't respond, he took it upon himself to enter the room of his own accord, gently closing the door behind him as he approached me. I brought _Jane Eyre_ closer to my face and defensively scrunched my knees up to my chest. Ron sighed, sitting at the end of my bed and smiling sadly.

"So do I get to tell you I'm sorry, or are you going to give me the silent treatment for the entire summer too?"

I brushed a stray lock behind my ear and ignored him.

"Hell-o?" he said, humorously emphasizing the syllables. "Are you there?" He waved his hand in front of my face, but I didn't budge.

"Fine," he said dramatically. "I'm afraid you've forced me to resort to drastic measures."

I looked up at him, frowning, wondering what "drastic measures" entailed, and suddenly Ron snatched my book from my unsuspecting hands and stood up from the bed.

" _Hey!_ " I objected, following him. He held the book high above our heads and shook it tauntingly; I attempted to grab it, but to no avail. "Give me my book, Ronald!"

"If you want it, take it!"

"I can't!"

"That's what you get for being short!"

"I'm not short, you're just really tall!"

"Really, and how tall are you exactly?" he asked teasingly. "Five feet?"

"I'm five-foot-three, for _your_ information!"

"Still below average," he said. "You poor soul. Although your hair sort of gives the illusion that you're taller than you actually are." He used his free hand to gently pet the top of my bushy locks, and I used his momentary distraction to grab his other arm and yank my book from his grasp. He staggered back from me a bit, laughing.

"Sod off," I said. "Ginny's even smaller than me but you don't see people using that against her."

"Because she'd hex them into next week if they did."

"You're right," I agreed, chuckling.

"Hermione Granger admits someone else is right?" said Ron, his mouth hanging open in exaggerated incredulity. "Shall I alert the _Prophet_?"

I didn't respond, instead taking in his flushed appearance, appreciating the way his thin, muscled build rippled through his snug, striped shirt. He stepped forward and grabbed my free hand, smiling at me apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"About our Hogsmeade visit, insulting my height, or stealing my book?"

"All three," he answered, laughing lightly. "But mainly the Hogsmeade bit."

"I … I forgive you."

"Do you really?"

"Yes. I can't stay mad at you forever. Although … you _did_ really hurt my feelings, Ron."

"I know," he said. "Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is," I began, standing up straight, "first, you can agree to stop being so protective of me. I appreciate it, Ron—really, I do—but I'm a big girl, okay?"

"Okay," he replied, grinning. "Anything else?"

"Yes. You can hug me." I held out my arms, and Ron took no time to respond: he slithered his limbs around my slender waist and pressed me against his broader frame, resting his chin on my shoulder and burying his face in my hair. We stayed like that for a solid minute, gently swaying against each other, before pulling apart and staring at one another longingly. "I missed writing to you. But I didn't want to because I was—"

"—mad?" he completed. "I understand, Hermione. I almost thought to write to you myself but I figured you wouldn't respond." He titled his head to the side, eyeing me appreciatively. "Ginny told me you looked beautiful at the Yule Ball."

"Oh—yeah, I suppose I looked all right."

"That's not what I heard," he said, smiling at me. "She said your hair was all silky and pulled back in a bun and that you had this pretty blue dress. I wish I could have been there to see you."

"Yes, it was periwinkle," I said matter-of-factly, attempting to distract myself from the pang of sadness and guilt that was aroused by his last sentence. "Periwinkle is one of my favorite colors."

"I'll have to remember that," he said. "Congratulations on your boyfriend winning the Tournament, by the way."

I rolled my eyes. "Viktor is not my boyfriend. He just—"

"—kissed your cheek and took you to the ball?"

"Right."

"Right," he breathed, looking down at his trainers. "Listen, Hermione. In all honesty, I still think he's too old for you—but!" he said as I opened my mouth to object, "— _but_ I'm going to respect your right to do what you want. Just … be careful, okay? I'd hate to see you get hurt."

"Okay, Ron," I replied, and the smile I had been attempting to suppress broke through and showed on my face; it felt so good being with him again.

He frowned.

"Hermione … what happened to your teeth?"

"My teeth?" I said, bringing my hands up to my face. "What about my teeth? Oh—oh yes." I chuckled to myself at having forgotten. "I used a shrinking charm on them."

"But—why?" he said, looking genuinely disturbed by the matter.

"Well … I had been trying to get my parents to let me use the charm for some time now, but being dentists and all they obviously didn't condone the mixture of dental matters and magic. They were actually planning on having braces put on me this summer. They aren't going to be happy with me at all," I said, giggling. "But it was the Yule Ball, Ron—I wanted to look nice! So, while I was getting ready, I just sort of did it. It was a rather simple spell, really. Don't they look nice?" I asked, flashing him my improved set of pearly white, straight, now normal-sized teeth.

"Yeah, they do," he replied. "But, for the record, Hermione, I thought your smile was fine the way it was before."

"I can see your nose growing, Pinocchio."

"I'm serious!" he insisted. "I mean—sure, your teeth were a little larger than average, but it was _your_ smile!"

"Don't you still like my smile now?"

He sighed, grinning. "Yeah, I do."

"Good."

"Good," Ron reiterated.

He held out a hand and squeezed my shoulder, and his touch sent shivers down my spine.

* * *

A week later I curled up on the sofa in the Weasley's living area, my belly full and satisfied with my recently consumed breakfast. I sighed as I tried to find a comfortable sitting position, though every bone in my body seemed to scream with ache.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked the second he saw me, brushing some crumbs off on his jeans as he entered the room.

"Oh, it's nothing, Ron," I said, shaking my head.

"Something certainly _looks_ wrong."

I shrugged. "I'm feeling a bit sad today, that's all."

"Why are you sad?" he said, genuine concern clouding his features.

"It's nothing to fuss over, Ron," I said, trying to find a way to tell him without _really_ telling him. "It's … er, it's hormonal matters."

"Hormonal?"

"Are you _really_ going to make me say it, you prat?"

"Now that you've called me a prat, I'm going to have to hear whatever 'it' is now!"

I huffed dramatically, setting my book down in my lap and sitting up on the sofa. "If you must know, Ron, it's … it's the first day of my menstrual cycle, that's all." I winced as I softly uttered the last bit, nervously awaiting his reaction.

"Menstru— _oh_ ," said Ron, his face going red. "That's—that's nothing to be embarrassed of, though, is it? It's something that girls do, right? But … um, why does it make you sad?"

"Some women experience sadness, some experience pain, some feel sick, and some feel fine and experience none of those things—all women are slightly different when it comes to their reproductive cycle."

"I see," he said softly, licking his lips. "And you? Are you in pain right now?"

"Not so much pain as a little soreness—mainly in my back." I shifted against the cushions. "That's why it's a bit difficult for me to find a comfortable sitting position, you see. I put a soothing potion in my tea this morning so hopefully it should kick in soon."

Ron then placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, as he had done on the day of my arrival, only now with more pressure. "Does it hurt here?"

"Um … yeah."

He moved his hand down a little and applied the same pressure to the top of my upper arm.

"What about here?"

"Not so much."

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Turn your back toward me a little, yeah?" he requested, and I was more than happy to oblige.

I turned away from him, setting my book on the arm of the sofa, and closed my eyes as Ron brought his hand up again and continued to knead my shoulder. He quickly graduated to using both of his hands at once, working up and down my back like a professional, gently prodding me in all of the right spots. He paid great attention to my auditory clues, spending more time rubbing the areas that caused me to moan with the most relief. He swept my hair over my shoulder to get better access, and even through my shirt his touch felt absolutely _superb_.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he asked.

"Quite the contrary."

He made his way up and down my back one last time before finishing off with my shoulders again. I sighed in satisfaction and turned to look at him, a bright, grateful smile breaking out across my face.

"I feel so much better, Ron. Thank you."

"No problem. You'd do the same for me, right?"

"You get menstrual related aches too, Ron?" I giggled.

"Oi! You know what I meant!" he said, but laughed along with me all the same.

"It sort of reminds me of how my mother would help me feel better when I was younger. If I got a bruise or anything she'd 'kiss' it better and I swear—just like that—I'd feel so much better … Seems silly, doesn't it?"

"I don't think so." Ron smiled, bringing his hand up to his face. He placed a kiss on his palm, reached around me, and rubbed it on my back. "Like that?"

"Yeah … like that."

"Well, if I had known that all I needed to do was kiss it better I wouldn't have bothered with that massage. You've exploited my labor, Granger!"

"Prat," I playfully deemed him.

"Were you and Ginny planning to do anything special today?"

"Not really," I replied, shrugging. "Honestly, I don't see how Ginny isn't sick of hanging out with me yet, seeing that we basically live together for several months out of the year."

"I can't imagine anyone getting sick of hanging out with you," said Ron sincerely, and, upon realizing exactly what he had said, added awkwardly: "I mean, oh bloody hell—"

"Why don't you and I do something?" I asked, saving him.

"Yeah? Like what?"

I bit my bottom lip in thought. "There's an old cinema in Diagon Alley. We could Floo there and see something together. I'm afraid it's one of those vintage spots that only show old Muggle films, though—"

"That's brilliant!" he said. "But I'm paying for both of us, Hermione. No exceptions."

"I'll invite Ginny too," I said. "Though for some reason I doubt she'll want to go."

As I had thought, the moment I found Ginny and informed her of Ron and I's plans for an outing, she offered me her signature mischievous smirk and insisted that we go by ourselves. We departed after lunch, Flooing via the network offered by the Leaky Cauldron before heading down Diagon Alley toward the cinema. While certainly less impressive than some of the other businesses the district had to offer, there was a distinctively homey charm to its smallness that made it a comfortable venue for lovers looking for a cheap source of late-night entertainment, children wishing to kill time while their parents went shopping, or, in the case of this particular afternoon, Ron and I seeking an excuse to be together without the constant threat of one of the other Weasleys noticing our closeness.

"What would you like to see?" I said, staring up at the small listing.

"Hmm … there's a showing of _The Princess Bride_ in about twenty minutes. Wanna see that?"

I quirked my brow up in surprise, staring at him. "You want to see _The Princess Bride_?"

"Sure."

"But—that's a _girly_ film, Ron," I said, giggling.

"Hey!" he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I heard it's good! I've never seen it myself—"

"Oh no, I'm all for defying gender stereotypes—it's a little amusing is all."

"I'm glad I _amuse_ you so much, Miss Granger," he replied, rolling his eyes. He reached into one of the deep pockets of his jeans and produced two Galleons. Handing them to me, he said: "Get some snacks while I buy the tickets, yeah?"

Within minutes we were comfortably seated in one of the back rows, our hands full with various candies and sugary drinks that we both knew we had no business consuming before dinner. The lights dimmed, and we were one of the few people in the auditorium. As the film started and progressed, I couldn't help but glance over at Ron every so often and study his face and reactions, thinking I could spend my entire life committing each individual freckle to memory.

At some point during the final third, his hand found mine and applied a light squeeze, and I felt comfortable leaning my head against his shoulder. We were serene and everything about the moment was serene and beatific.

When it was all over, his hand remained clasped protectively in mine as we departed the cinema and began an idle wander through Diagon Alley. It was around four in the afternoon and the shopping district was as busy as ever, but we walked slowly with no particular destination in mind. In the process, we passed the brightly lit shop of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, where the loveliest set of lilac dress robes was displayed in the front window on elaborately detailed mannequins. The hems of the sleeves were decorated with shining, gold fabric. I stepped toward the display window with Ron at my side, admiring them.

"They're lovely, aren't they?" I said.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "I think they'd clash with my hair, though. Then again everything clashes with my hair, doesn't it?"

"Not _everything_ , Ron."

"I think they'd look nice on you."

I blushed and was about to say "thank you" before I was distracted by the front door of the shop opening, and out stepped a regrettably familiar face. Draco Malfoy, with his blonde hair stylishly slicked back, smirking as his unfriendly grey eyes focused on the two of us.

It was no secret to the majority of the Hogwarts population that his family had enjoyed a close correspondence with Voldemort when he was alive, but a lack of concrete evidence in the immediate aftermath of the war left the family still socially and financially well-off. Draco embodied the pureblood supremacist ideology that was associated with the Malfoys—who were virtually the quintessential opposites of the Weasleys—and I and many other Muggle-borns at Hogwarts were often the subject of muttered rude remarks among him and his Slytherin cronies. I made a move to turn away from him, but he spoke before I could: "Why, hello there, Granger. I thought I saw you! Weird running across you outside of school, though; I assumed you lived in the library."

"And I assumed you lived at the Magical Menagerie, since you look like a ferret." A poor comeback, I know, but I wasn't a bully like he was and therefore not well-versed in the art of such rude rhetoric. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Shopping, of course. Some of us can afford nice clothes, after all," he remarked condescendingly, staring up and down at my humble assemble of my white trainers, faded denim, and the sweater Mrs. Weasley had made for me two Christmases ago. "Although, even I will admit that you didn't look _terrible_ at the ball, Granger. Then again I'd make sure I'd look good too if I was whoring myself out to famous Quidditch players."

Ron's hands clenched into tight fists, and I knew we had to get out of there.

"Don't," I whispered to him. "Let's just leave."

"Who's your date?" Draco continued. "I've never seen such unsightly red hair in all of my life. In fact, he almost looks like … oh _no_ ," he said, a look of utter amusement breaking out across his pointed features as he apparently had fully realized whatever he was wondering. "He's a Weasley, isn't he? One of your little friend's brothers?" He looked Ron up and down, smirking. "How come I haven't seen this one at school? What's your name, ginger?"

"Don't say anything, Ron," I said softly, though apparently not softly enough.

"Ron, you say?" said Draco. "Ron, as in Ronald, as in Ronald the filthy Squib that the Weasleys don't talk about?" Ron and I didn't respond, which seemed to provide all the confirmation Draco needed. "My father's told me all about the Weasleys. Wow, for a second I thought the Squib part was made up—but it turns out the Weasleys actually _do_ have something else to be embarrassed of besides being a load of Muggle-loving blood traitors."

"Shut up, Malfoy," I spat. "You're lucky we're in a public place, or I would hex you!"

"I'm not insulting you, Granger!" he insisted, amused. "I find you two to be a rather fitting couple, actually. An ugly Mudblood and a worthless Squib; how poetic."

"Don't listen to him, Ron. Let's go."

I grabbed Ron by the arm and tugged him away as Draco continued snickering to himself behind us. I didn't stop until we were well into the Leaky Cauldron and we wasted no time in Flooing back to the Burrow, where Ron immediately ascended the staircase to his bedroom without saying a word to me.

Ginny, who had been sitting in the armchair with the purring Crookshanks and the latest edition of _Witch Weekly_ , looked at me with wide brown eyes. "What's wrong with Ron?"

"He's … um, he's feeling a bit sick, I'm afraid. We had too many sweets at the cinema."

"Leave it to Ron to take his sweets intake in moderation," she replied, rolling her eyes. "How was the cinema?"

"Oh, it was fine!" I said a tad too brightly.

I then offered to fix us some tea and occupied myself with the task, inviting Ginny to converse with me on whatever small happenings occurred while Ron and I were gone. Despite my best efforts, however, the reality of the situation remained a terrible, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach: with minutes, my perfect day with Ron had been ruined.

* * *

Only after I was sure that Ginny and the rest of the Burrow were sound asleep did I make the long journey upstairs to Ron's just-beneath-the-attic bedroom. It was nearly eleven, and he hadn't been out since we had returned from our excursion—not even for dinner—and I had stressed the "he's feeling sick and tired" lie to the rest of the Weasleys as an excuse not to disturb him.

I slowly ascended the seemingly never-ending flight of stairs, gingerly testing each step before placing my whole weight on it so as not to disturb or arouse the suspicion of any of the sleeping Weasleys. Finally, when I reached my destination, I lightly tapped my knuckles against the wood of the shut door: "Ron. It's Hermione. Do you … do you want to talk?"

I heard some shuffling on the other side of the door, confirming my assumption that he was still, indeed, awake.

"No," came his voice, slightly hoarse.

I decided not to pry. "Okay," I said. "If you really don't want to talk, I'll leave. But—but I promise, you'd feel better if you talk about it."

"No, I won't," he replied.

"Yes," I said softly. "You will." He didn't respond for a moment, and I almost took it to mean that he still wanted me to leave—but then the door opened, and he stood there in his snug pajamas, his hair slightly disheveled and a ring of red puffiness around both of his blue eyes, like he'd been crying for a very long time. "Can I come in?" I asked.

He stepped aside and allowed me entrance into his cramped bedroom, decorated from nearly top to bottom with Chudley Cannon memorabilia. He closed the door behind us, walked past me, and sat down on his bed, where the covers were pushed aside, exposing the crinkled sheets.

"Sit down with me."

I did.

"I'm glad you're still awake," I said. "I don't think we should just forget about what happened. There's … there are things I can do to ensure that foul boy is punished."

"Yeah, such as?"

"I could—I could report it to the school—"

"What's your bloody magic school got to do with any of this? It's not like they can do anything considering it happened off of school grounds, and during the holiday, no less."

"Maybe so, but they can still take disciplinary action against him when he returns. He's a serial bully and he deserves to—"

"Honestly, Hermione," he interrupted me again, "I really just want to drop it."

"Drop it?"

"Yeah. I mean, there are some situations where it's better to walk away from it rather than giving it a reaction. Did you do anything about that Skeeter woman who wrote those things about you?"

"Well … no."

"And why didn't you? Because it would stir up more trouble than it's worth. A million people could call her a lying hag and she'd still be one of the most successful journalists in the wizarding world, and a million people could report whatshisface and that wouldn't stop him from hating Muggle-borns and Squibs and blood traitors. So can we please— _please_ —drop it and move on?"

"But Ron ... look at you!" I said, motioning to his face. "You've been crying for hours about this, haven't you?"

"Maybe I have. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does! Don't you think—?"

" _Why would it matter if it's true!?_ " he exploded. "Why should I bother to care when I already know that everything he said about me is the truth? I _am_ a worthless Squib, Hermione, and my family _is_ embarrassed of me. All those things I once told you about me being 'accepting' of my non-magicness and choosing not to dwell on it because there's nothing I can do about it—I lied, okay? I _hate_ myself. I _hate_ myself for being a Squib."

I sat there, mouth hanging open, and tears obscuring my vision. "Ron, you mustn't—"

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" he continued, ignoring my plea. "I mean, with you it's the opposite, isn't it? You're a Muggle-born; you're a special person amongst average people. But me—I'm an average person, if even that, amongst special people. Can you even imagine how I must feel at all the weddings and family gatherings I'm dragged to? Having to be the one who pours drinks by hand or sets tables by hand because I can't flick a bloody wand and have it done for me? Do you have _any_ idea what it feels like being an ugly stain on the pureblood family tree? Going to Muggle school knowing that I don't really belong because I'm not _really_ a Muggle, but not being able to go to Hogwarts because I'm not a wizard either? Generations and _generations_ of Weasleys, all magical, all pureblood, and then I come along and muck everything up. I honestly wish I'd never been born. I know Mum wanted a girl, anyway—"

" _Ronald. Bilius. Weasley_." I wavered a bit as I rose to my feet, but there was a firmness in my tone that made him shut up and stare at me. Tears were streaming freely down my face at this point, but I didn't care; I didn't even bother wiping them away. "I'm going to tell you one thing right now. This is the absolute truth and I will not debate you on it now or ever again: your family _loves_ you and they are _not_ embarrassed of you. In fact, I daresay I've never seen a more loving family in all of my life. When I first met Ginny at Hogwarts and started getting to know her, she talked about you _all the time_ —'My brother Ron really loves this', 'Ron really likes that', 'I can't wait for you to meet Ron when you come to my house this summer, Hermione!' Ginny _loves_ you. And the twins love you. Percy loves you. And even though I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting Bill or Charlie, I know they love you too. And your parents? Your parents love you more than anything else in the world and they do _not_ wish you had never been born or were a girl. And—and you know who else loves you?"

"Who?" he asked very softly, as if he were terrified to speak.

There was a part of me that was almost afraid to say what I wanted to say, but there was no going back now: " _I_ love you. I bloody _love_ you, Ron. You're one of my best friends and you're sweet and funny and kind and smart and loyal and practically every other good quality you could find in a human being and I _love_ you. So there you have it: you are loved by so many people, Ronald Weasley, and you're going to have to learn to get that through your thick skull and deal with it."

Ron looked at me with wide eyes and an open-mouthed expression, utterly stunned. Breathing heavily, I wiped my face and resumed my seated position next to him. He turned to face me, looking like he was about to say something several times before stopping short of any utterance.

"Hermione," he finally said, "do you really mean all of that?"

"Every word of it, Ron."

"I—well—I," he began, and all at once he had pulled me into a bone-crushing hug, nearly causing me to fall over on his bed in the process. "Thank you, Hermione," he managed, his voice withered with unexpressed emotion. "I l-love you too."

I hugged him back just as intensely, my hands going up to work through his hair. I kissed his temple, breathing into his skin: "Don't you _ever_ scare me like that again, Ron Weasley."

"I w-won't. I'm sorry."

I lessened my intimate hold on him just enough to pull back to see him clearly, and when I did, I could clearly make out silent tears falling down his freckled features; I cupped his face in my hands before swiping them away with the pads of my thumb.

"Oh, bloody hell," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for crying, Ron."

"Boys aren't supposed to cry."

"Now who's the one upholding gender stereotypes?"

He smiled, and my ears were blessed with a genuine chuckle emanating from deep within his throat. "I guess I am."

"Ron …" I began again, rubbing up and down his arms, "I … I think I should be going now, okay? But first, aren't you hungry? You haven't had anything to eat since we were at the cinema, haven't you? I'd be glad to go downstairs and warm up some of the leftovers."

He shook his head in refusal. "I'm not hungry. I'm rather tired now that I think of it." Then, to my surprise, he actually slipped between his covers and the sheets and beckoned me closer: "Stay with me tonight. Please."

Instantaneously, my face went a million shades of scarlet. "Oh—oh, Ron. That's a bad idea. I mean, if your mother were to catch us—"

"It's not like we're doing anything inappropriate! Come on, please?"

"I'd have to get up no later than six to avoid getting caught!"

He reached over to his bedside table and, from the drawer, drew forth a small wireless alarm clock, which he promptly set for six in the morning. "Done. Now will you stay with me?"

"Um …" I searched for some other logical reason to decline, although every bone in my body wanted nothing more than to surround myself with him.

He propped his head up on a pillow and puckered his lower lip. " _Pleeeeaaaase?_ "

Rolling my eyes, I accepted my defeat. " _Oh-kay_." But even I couldn't stop the grin that erupted on my face as I placed myself next to him, feeling the warmth of his longer, stronger frame engulf me as he pulled the covers over us. He reached out and turned off the single bedside table lamp that lit the room, and I could feel him gently nuzzle my plaited hair; the action alone made my toes curl and my heart beat faster—I wondered if he could feel it.

"Is your back comfortable like this?" he asked. "I remember how you said you were sore earlier …"

"I'm fine, Ron. More than fine."

We settled into a peaceful silence, during which his steady breathing tickled the back of my neck.

"Hey, Hermione," he said a few moments later, the slow lowness of his voice indicating that he was already only minutes away from sleep. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Ron."

"You're … you're still going to marry me when we get older, right?" He lazily rubbed his thumb against the side of my stomach that my thin night top left partially exposed, and his touch was like a branding iron, marking me with his presence forever.

"Of … of course I am, Ron."

"Good," he said through a yawn. "I … wanted … to make sure. Goodnight … Hermione."

"Goodnight, Ron."

It was the first time we ever spoke of the pact we had made when we were thirteen, two summers earlier, and it was the last we would ever speak of it for some time to come.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX**

When Ron met Harry, it was like watching two pieces of a puzzle slide smoothly into place; so obvious in their connection and perfect in their fixing. It was a genuinely pleasing surprise, trotting downstairs freshly showered and dressed to see Harry at the Weasleys' breakfast table, laughing and chatting with Ron and Ginny and the twins.

"Tuck in, Harry, my dear," said Mrs. Weasley, placing a large glass container of orange juice on the wooden table. "We've got a little bit of everything."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," replied Harry cheerfully, and he proceeded to apply a liberal amount of marmalade to his thoroughly browned toast. He looked up and saw me approaching with a look of sheer surprise. "Hermione!" he said, standing up from the table and coming over to me. He pulled me into a hug and I patted his back in response. "Good to see you!"

"Good to see you too, Harry," I said. "Although I wasn't _expecting_ to see you!"

"I invited him over for the day," Ginny supplied from her sitting position next to Harry's designated spot. "It was last minute, really. He wrote to me saying he's been right bored since we got back from school."

"I didn't put it quite like _that_ ," said Harry, smirking in her direction. "Although I wasn't going to ignore an opportunity to get out of the house for a bit."

Ron also greeted me enthusiastically as I occupied the free seat next to him and Harry resumed his spot next to Ginny. "You should have been here a few minutes earlier," said Ron. "Harry was telling me about being a Seeker. That's amazing that you got picked when you were only a first-year!" he added, turning back to Harry, who sat directly across from him.

"That made him the youngest Seeker Hogwarts has seen in a century," I said as I helped myself to some sausage.

"But only because they were willing to bend the rules a little for me," Harry bashfully commented.

"I know—I was there, remember?" I added playfully. "You should have seen him, Ron. This—er, this boy—" I avoided mentioning Draco by name, "—took this other boy Neville's Remembrall—that's a device used to alert someone when they've forgotten something—and Harry would have none of it. He flew right after him until the boy threw it, and Harry snatched it out of the air right before it hit the ground. It was an amazing spectacle, even if it was a reckless disregard of the school rules."

"That makes it all the more amazing," Ron concluded.

"Ron is rather good on a broomstick too," said Fred through a mouthful of eggs. "When he's not breaking my toy broomstick, that is."

Ron shot him a dirty look.

"Ron, you … you fly?" I asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, um … a bit."

"More than a bit," said George. "He's beaten us in plenty of the Quidditch games we've had in the orchard."

"Well, er—the magic is only in the broomstick, you see, Hermione," Ron explained. "So, you know, a person doesn't necessarily have to be magical themselves to be able to use one. S'plains why I can use Floo Powder too, right? Granted, someone with magic will probably pick up on flying faster and the broom will probably respond to them better but … yeah, that's why brooms are so regulated, because if a Muggle got a hold of one it'd be a disaster."

"Oh … yes, of course," I said, embarrassed at my ignorance, and for inherently making Ron expand on an aspect of his non-magical status at the breakfast table. "That … that makes perfect sense. But why didn't you ever tell me you fly?"

He shrugged. "Ginny once mentioned you're not into sports."

"She's not," Harry confirmed, chuckling.

"Hey, I've always been _very_ supportive of you, Harry!"

"Also true," replied my raven-haired friend, and both he and Ron continued to converse on matters of Quidditch for the rest of breakfast, even after the twins and Ginny and I left.

"So … you've been writing to Harry?" I inquired with an impish grin as we settled into the living area. "School only _just_ ended. Don't you think it's a bit early for him to be 'bored'?"

"What exactly are you suggesting, Granger?" said Ginny with an equally cheeky inflection.

"I'm suggesting that perhaps he only wanted an excuse to see you."

"To see _me_?" she scoffed. "Oh please, that's unlikely. We're just friends. Besides … I'm over my crush on him."

"Oh, really?" I asked skeptically.

"Really!" Ginny briefly glanced around the room to ensure that we were indeed alone before leaning forward and asking me softly: "Do you know Michael Corner?"

"Sure," I replied. Michael was a Ravenclaw boy in my year. While I had not had much direct contact with him, I did recall him being intelligent, as he always provided enthusiastic answers to any question he was given in class. He had a soft, round face and dark brown hair that he wore long on his shoulders and was definitely conventionally handsome, although I did attribute to him a sort of cynical hardness that made me question Ginny's apparent interest in him.

"If you had actually stuck around during the Yule Ball instead of going off to snog Viktor, you would have noticed that he asked if he could dance with me," she said, grinning. "Neville didn't mind, of course—Neville was having such a good time dancing I swear he could have gone as his own date. Anyway, Michael told me I looked beautiful in my dress, and we started talking … and dancing … and … well, you know!"

"I most certainly do _not_ know!" I stage-whispered to her as we burst into nymphish giggles. "Are you saying he kissed you?"

"Oh—oh no! Not at all! I wouldn't have allowed that after we only just met—I'm no slag, Hermione. But we did starting talking a lot after the ball and … he hasn't _officially_ asked me to be his girlfriend yet, but I think it's coming soon. I was putting off telling you until then," she ended, blushing.

"You two have been flirting since Christmas and he hasn't asked you to be his girlfriend yet?"

"These things take time, Hermione!" my friend responded. "Not all of us our fortunate enough to have famous Quidditch players fall in love just by looking at us, after all."

"Viktor Krum is _not_ in love with me."

"Oh please," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "I saw the way he looked at you at the ball. The whole school did. And I'm reluctant to believe that anything other than passionate snogging ensued the moment you two left to 'get some fresh air', as you told me."

"We _were_ rather hot, given all the dancing!" I rationalized.

"But he did snog you then?"

"He kissed me briefly; it was hardly a snog."

"How brief is 'briefly'?"

"Um …" I considered, thinking back on the memory of Viktor Krum, beyond thrilled that I had taken him up on his offer to be my backup date, asking for my consent to kiss me. Being so swept up in romance of the moment—it was my first kiss, after all—and in the glamour of the ball (and also being that I was still in a right stew over my argument with Ron), I said yes. His lips were warm and his groomed patch of facial hair tickled my chin. On the last day of term, he gave me his contact information and asked me to write to him in Bulgaria. However, there was no formal exchange on the status of our relationship, so by no means did I consider myself committed to him. And then when I was with Ron … it was like the kiss with Viktor had never even happened. "… about a minute, maybe."

"Sixty seconds of uninterrupted kissing constitutes a snog," said Ginny matter-of-factly. "And he snogged you before he went back to Durmstrang, didn't he?"

"… Maybe," I replied in a small voice, and in order to change the subject I suggested that we go check on the boys, who were still bonding in that way that boys do, with animated conversation about everything and anything in the world. If I hadn't known them, I would have assumed, just from the way that they were speaking to each other, that they had been the best of friends for a very long time. It filled me with a satisfying warmth to watch the two boys of my life interact so amicably.

"Hey, guys," said Harry when he noticed us. "Ron and I were just about to go flying out in the orchard. Would you care to watch us?"

" _Watch_ you?" said Ginny, placing her hands on her hips. "We'll do much more than that. Hermione and I are going to fly circles around you boys."

"I don't know which Hermione you're talking about, Ginny, but it's certainly not me," I chuckled.

"But, Hermione—"

"You know I don't like flying, Ginny!"

"You can ride with me, Hermione," said Ron. "You know, if you don't feel like doing it yourself."

"It's settled, then," said Ginny before I could respond. She clapped her hands together for dramatic effect. "Me versus Harry versus Ron and Hermione. From the back yard, past the garden, around the orchard, and back, okay? Ron, you and Hermione can go get the broomsticks from the shed; I'm going to show Harry around so he'll know where he's flying to, all right?"

The boys agreed and from there we departed the kitchen and proceeded to the back yard of the Burrow, where Ginny took Harry aside to explain to him their route for the race and Ron walked forward with confidence to the shed next to the garden. I followed him.

"Ron, wouldn't it be better if I just watched? I mean with my extra weight won't I be slowing you down?"

"Not at all." He yanked open the creaky wooden door to the shed and brought forth three broomsticks, all very old and heavily used in their appearance. "Our broomsticks aren't worth so much as a Knut and they'd still easily hold three grown men without affecting the speed. Besides," he said, grinning at me, "I need your support."

We returned to Harry and Ginny, with Ron effortlessly carrying all three brooms despite my offer to help.

"All right, you lot," he said, handing out the brooms to the two of them. "Let's make this interesting, yeah? Ginny, if I win, you have to … er …"

"I'll take over your share of de-gnoming the garden for the next month," Ginny suggested, "and if I win, you do the same."

"Not a month. That's too long with those little buggers. Two weeks. Deal?"

"Deal," Ginny agreed, and the brother and sister shook hands.

"What if I win?" Harry asked.

"You're a neutral party. If you win then Ron and I's share of the chores stay the same."

Harry chuckled, shrugging. "All right."

The three mounted their brooms with such graceful fluidity that it almost appeared that they were moving in synchronization. Ron scooted forward and beckoned me to him: I approached tentatively and placed my legs on either side of the broom, holding my arms out awkwardly.

"You'll want to hold on to me," said Ron. He reached behind him and took both of my wrists, wrapping my arms around his waist. "You should probably lean against me too."

"Oh … okay." My face burning, I leaned forward and pressed the side of my face and torso against Ron's hard, muscled back. I wondered how many freckles were hiding beneath his shirt.

Without warning, Ron kicked off of the ground and we were soon hovering ten feet in the air; Harry and Ginny quickly followed suit. I gasped as my feet left the safety of the earth, but Ron only chuckled when I tightened my hold on his waist.

"On the count of three, then?" said Ginny. The boys bellowed words of agreement, and I braced myself by closing my eyes and holding onto Ron for dear life. Why in God's name did I agree to this? "ONE … TWO … THREE!"

The shrillest, ugliest scream I had ever produced escaped from my mouth as Ron pushed forward in a dramatic zoom. My hair was swept behind me and Ron's own chin-length locks tickled my face. He flew with skilled confidence and I, eventually, dared to open my eyes: the countryside of Ottery St. Catchpole blurred together in a sea of various greens. It was beautiful. There was little time for me to appreciate it though, for, just when I thought I was getting comfortable on this cataclysmic course of death, Ron made a sharp right turn as we passed through the orchard, which was hidden from any potential Muggle eyes by high trees.

"All right back there, Hermione?" he shouted back at me.

"No!" I replied through a tearful laugh.

I didn't know where Harry and Ginny were in relation to us; I only saw the Burrow grow closer and closer after Ron made another sharp turn and finally— _finally_ —began a steady descent into the back yard, landing several meters from the back door of the house. Harry and Ginny landed beside us two seconds later, seemingly at the same time. Ron released a roar of victory. We must have been airborne for less than four minutes, but the safety of the ground felt long overdue.

"Congratulations, brother," said Ginny. "I'll get you next time, though."

"You're a fair flyer, Ron!" Harry deemed. "Although I'm sure that now I'm more familiar with the course I'll be able to be a fairer opponent next time."

"Whatever you two say," Ron smirked. "After you, Hermione."

I sighed in relief at being able to safely place my feet on the grass once more, although it was with some melancholy that I detached my arms from around Ron's waist. But in the process of removing myself from the old broomstick, I clumsily tripped, and, instinctively reaching for the one thing closest to me—Ron—for support, I unfortunately brought him tumbling down with me. He released his hold on the broomstick, and, in an attempt to lessen the impact of my fall, grabbed me by the waist and swiveled us. He landed face-up with an impressive _thud_ on the grass below, and I, of course, fell on top of him.

His hands still on my waist, he looked up at me with a large, dopey grin, like he'd been hit with a powerful Cheering Charm. He chuckled deeply. "Whoops," he said. "Fancy seeing you down here, miss."

I, however, did not enjoy the opportunity to joke about our position, for within seconds Ginny and Harry were already helping both of us off the ground with a series of various "Are you all right?" inquiries.

"M'fine," I muttered, flushed, as I smoothed out my shirt.

"And you, Ron?" asked Harry. "Ron?"

"What?" he said, tearing his eyes away from me. "Oh, yeah—I'm fine; we're fine. Good race, you two."

Ginny smirked at her brother's expression. "Harry, help me put the brooms away, would you? We'll meet you two back in the house," she added to the pair of us.

Grabbing the three broomsticks, Harry and Ginny turned away from Ron and I in the direction of the old shed, gradually shrinking in size as their distance between us increased. Ron turned to me once they were out of ear-shot.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"What are you apologizing for? I was the one who tripped like a clumsy troll. I'm sorry."

"Well, if you ever need to fall again, feel free to do it on me."

He smiled and took my hand, and I was more than tempted to take him up on his offer.

* * *

Harry Flooed home shortly after dinner, with Mrs. Weasley openly inviting him to come back to the Burrow whenever he pleased.

After all of the goodnights had been exchanged, I lied awake in my bed in Ginny's room, staring at the wall, as my thoughts drifted back to the previous night that I had shared with Ron: in the hours following midnight, the red haired boy had snored softly at my side, the corners of his lips twitching every so often. I had turned to face him; I remembered the light from the recently risen sun had shined through his thin curtain, brilliantly illuminating his pale, cinnamon speckled face. In my dreams, he would lean forward and brush his lips against mine in the most innocent of kisses, but it would leave my heart pumping mad with desire nonetheless. He would also help me brush out my hair in the morning, and in the process he would declare sweet nothings, softly, in my ear, making my toes curl as I giggled and blushed. And when he would come in from doing the yard work he would smell strongly of freshly mown grass, and I would massage his calloused hands. When he would kiss me, his face would feel smooth against mine, and not prickly like Viktor's. Then he would tell me he loves me and I would know he meant it as more than a friend.

I had glanced at the alarm clock: it was nearly half past five, and I sighed and gently slithered from Ron's embrace, removing myself from the bed. I turned off the alarm that was set to go off in a half hour so he could sleep undisturbed a little while longer. I had stolen a final longing glance at him before tip-toeing out of the room, carefully descending the stairs until I was back with the still soundly snoozing Ginny. Crookshanks, who had remained undisturbed at the end of my bed, had opened his eyes and regarded me with a wide yellow _and what exactly have you been up to, young lady?_ kind of look. And then I had slipped back into my bed and resumed sleep, despite feeling an empty coldness without Ron by my side.

Tonight, however, I eventually decided that the coldness was too much to bear; so, with every inconspicuous tactic I had observed in Muggle mystery films, I departed Ginny's room once more and journeyed upstairs to Ron's room, where I was surprised to find the door wide open, as if he were waiting for me. I closed the door behind me as silently as I could.

His position, resting on his side, allowed enough room for me to peel back the covers and sheets and slip in next to him.

"Ron," I said softly.

He opened his eyes. "I was hoping you'd come spend the night with me again."

"You did?"

"Of course I did, Hermione. After what you did for me last night … well, thanks for that. I ... I don't _really_ feel that way, you know. Or at least I think I don't. I know my family loves me and all that, but there's always been that little voice in the back of my head telling me I'll never be good enough because I'm a Squib. Thanks for getting it to shut up for once."

"You are very welcome, Ron."

"Do you want me to set another alarm?"

"No, that's okay."

"Living dangerously, are we?" he chuckled.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about." My hand finally found his beneath the covers, and only then did I fully appreciate just how big they were compared to mine. Not quite as big as Viktor's, but still very big. Big and boney-fingered and beautiful. "So … you and Harry?"

"He's cool."

"And to think, not too long ago you said he was 'suspect'."

"I hadn't met him then."

"I see."

"You see everything, don't you?"

"Not necessarily. I don't see how you and Ginny and Harry can enjoy such a sport as flying. You're brilliant at it, but …"

"Thank you," he said. "And I think I have an idea why you don't like it."

"You do?"

"Yeah …" he propped himself on his elbow, cradling the side of his face with his palm and looking down at me. "It's because flying isn't based on logic. It … it takes a certain amount of instinct and intuition that you can't pick up in a book. You've got to trust yourself and your relationship with the broom. That's why you don't like it … because you don't feel like you're completely in control."

"That's a very philosophical analysis, Ron," I said, impressed. "Are you trying to make me insecure of myself?"

"What? No, I wasn't—"

"I'm kidding."

"Oh."

"Does that mean I get to analyze you now?"

"Sure," he agreed, smirking.

"All right …" Boldly, I reached up and took a lock of his hair in my hand, twirling the silky redness around my index finger. "Let's see …"

"If you're going to tell me I need a haircut, I already know that."

"No, as a matter of fact, I wasn't. I think your hair is lovely the way it is. I was actually going to say that I think you're very handsome all together, Ron. Although I'm afraid that's not so much in-depth analysis as it is me having functioning eyes."

"Thank you," he said. "But I'm afraid you're wrong, for once. I'm not good-looking."

"Yes, you are."

"The girls at my school don't think I am."

"I'm sure they do. They're probably afraid to approach you."

He frowned. "Why would they be afraid to approach me?"

"I don't think you realize how much you've grown in the past couple of years, Ron. I mean, you're very … _thick._ And tall. It might be a little intimidating to them."

He sighed, not looking entirely convinced. "Even if that is the case, I'm sort of glad they don't approach me. It wouldn't work if I tried to date a Muggle girl."

"Why not?"

"What would happen when she wants to come around and meet my family? How would I explain to her that we live so far on the outskirts of town that the Muggle postman doesn't even know our address exists? So far the excuse that I've used when any of my Muggle friends want to come over is that, with all the people living here, there'd be absolutely no room for us to do anything fun … which, you know, isn't exactly untrue to begin with …"

"Do you have lots of friends at Muggle school?" I asked, unpleasantly and guiltily realizing that I had never really inquired about the relationships he had outside of the wizarding world.

"I wouldn't say I'm the most popular bloke, but … yeah, I've got friends. There's Barny from the chess club; we got friendly rather quickly because we've both got red hair," he explained with a light laugh. "Frank from the football team is nice too. I knew him first from Maths; he convinced me to try out for the team. I've told them all of my siblings go to university, which covers up why they've never seen them … And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you keep in touch with any of your friends from when you went to Muggle school?"

I sighed. "I didn't really have friends, to tell you the sad truth. I was always the know-it-all with the big teeth and the bushy hair. Needless to say I was thrilled to discover that I would soon be going to another school. I didn't grow particularly close to anyone my first year at Hogwarts, but then I met Ginny when she showed up a year later and everything got better from there," I said with a smile. "Now I have Ginny and Harry and the twins."

"Aren't you forgetting someone?"

"Am I?" I asked with a playfully innocent cadence. "I don't think I am."

"Very funny."

"Well, perhaps I'd be more inclined to remember you if you'd come here."

I grabbed the arm supporting his head and brought him closer to me, resting my cheek against his chest and sighing in satisfaction as he wrapped his arms protectively around me. We fell asleep like that, and every night after that I found myself returning to his room long after the rest of the Burrow had fallen asleep. He was always waiting for me, and we enjoyed a mutual pleasure in one another's presence.

Was I in love with him then with every minute aspect of my being?

Of course I was, if not well before that.

Was I then willing to acknowledge it as an undeniable and irrevocable truth to anyone—even to myself?

No. Not a chance.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X**

At the risk of sounding arrogant, it came as little surprise to me when I was chosen to be a prefect. (Though, to be fair, it was no surprise to Harry or Ginny or the twins either, and the latter pair used my recently acquired title to tease me about how I would deduct House points for them merely sneezing.) In my four previous academic years at Hogwarts, I had not seen a mark lower than "Exceeds Expectations" and my behavioral record was impeccable. When I was not tending to my prefect duties with Dean Thomas, the chosen male Gryffindor prefect, my free time was split between Harry and Ginny, writing to Ron, and, of course, studying for the impending O.W.L. exams that were set to take place during the final month of school.

However, despite my various preoccupations, I couldn't help but harbor a twinge of jealousy at the witnessing of the blossoming romantic lives of Harry and Ginny. Cho Chang and the recently graduated Cedric Diggory had apparently broken up over the summer, leaving Harry with the opportunity to openly flirt with her, and the two were dating before Christmas. Meanwhile, Ginny and Michael Corner had become "official"; although, even by teenage romance standards, the two did not last long: she broke up with him following his sore reaction to Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw in the last match before the winter holiday, deeming him a "bad loser".

"I was thinking," my female friend later confessed to me. "Perhaps I rushed into a relationship with him to try to … you know, get over Harry. He's really not that pleasant to be with for any extended period of time."

I comforted her during the period of tender soreness that followed almost all break-ups, although it didn't take long for her to resume her usual chipper self.

At Christmas, along with my other presents for the Weasleys, I sent Ron a framed picture of the current lineup of the Chudley Cannons players, which I had acquired at a Quidditch memorabilia shop in Diagon Alley. What was most pleasantly surprising to me amongst the bunch of presents I received in return, however, was the most unusual bottle of perfume I had ever seen. It came from Ron. By no means did it smell bad, quite the opposite, actually; it was just the kind of smell that didn't consist of the vanilla-slash-fruity-slash-flowery aroma usually associated with women's fragrances. Instead, it was exceptionally alluring, like the kind of smell one would expect a fairy or angel or nymph to possess; not entirely human. The bottle it came in itself was a mystery: a strange, almost impractical star shape, pink and transparent. The peculiarity of the perfume was not what was most emotionally jarring to me, but rather the fact that Ron had purchased for me something so intimate and feminine, and when I visited the Burrow a few days following Christmas I had no idea how to thank him.

"It's very … er, _unusual_ , Ron."

"Unusual?" he asked with a frown. "In a bad way?"

"No! I rather like it. I'm just concerned about how much you paid for it, that's all. Because it smells … expensive."

"That's none of your business, young lady," he replied playfully.

"I'm serious, Ron."

"I paid what I could afford ... May I?" he added hopefully, leaning forward.

"Please."

I held my chin upward and pushed my French plaited pigtails behind my shoulders. Ron inched his face toward my exposed neck, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

"Brilliant," he said softly. He reached out and took one of my intricate plaits in his hand, stroking it affectionately. "I like your hair like this."

It would have been so easy to kiss him, the slightest movement of less than five inches. But even my supposed Gryffindor courage would not allow me to press my lips against his; to take what I had wanted for quite some time now. And I wondered—had Ron even had his first kiss? Even if he had made it clear that he wasn't romantically involved with anyone at his school, that didn't mean that there hadn't been plenty of opportunities for a beautiful Muggle girl to capture him in an innocent union of the mouths. As selfish as it was, I dearly hoped that wasn't the case.

On my third day at the Burrow during the latter half of the winter holiday (as always, I was invited to sleep over), I reached a decision regarding what to do, and I invited Ron to have an afternoon tea with me at the Rosa Lee Teabag in Diagon Alley. We ordered a plate of biscuits to go with our beverages, and when Ron eventually excused himself to go the loo, I utilized my compact mirror to ensure my hair looked acceptable and that there were no crumbs on my face.

This was it. I was going to ask him.

I had rehearsed before Ginny's vanity at least a dozen times that morning. "Ronald," I had said to my reflection, in a sweet yet confident voice, "we've known each other for some time now, haven't we? And I think, if it is not too bold of me to say so, that we share a connection that has the potential to be something that's a bit … well, beyond friendship. And I was wondering if you possibly felt the same?" It sounded so practical and straightforward, without being overbearing too. I could only pray that I could repeat it to him as perfectly as I had rehearsed it.

He returned and sat down across from me. We were in an intimate little booth in the back corner of the building. The fireplace crackled lowly, and the shop was actually quite busy, which was perfect. (I was reminded of a quote from _The Great Gatsby_ , one of my favorite pieces of Muggle literature, about large parties providing more privacy than small parties.)

I inhaled deeply in preparation.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. More than fine," I smiled somewhat hesitantly, reaching out to take his hand. He didn't resist. "Ron, there's something I want to tell you."

"Yeah?" He leaned forward attentively. I briefly closed my eyes, bringing forth the recent memories of my successful rehearsals in the mirror. I could do this. When I met his gaze again, his blue eyes were so exquisitely piercing. He looked eager; hopeful, even. "What is it, Hermione?"

"Well, Ron," I began slowly, a smile playing with the corners of my mouth, "you and I have been friends for some time now, haven't we? And … I was thinking that, perhaps—"

"Is that HERMIONE GRANGER?" an unexpected voice, high and bubbly, sounded from a few feet away. I turned to the source: Lavender Brown, clad in a stylishly faded pair of denim that hugged the curves of her thighs, a long sleeved, pink flower-patterned top, and a matching hair ribbon that held her blonde waves behind her ears, from which dangled a small pair of gold hoop earrings. She was gorgeous.

She approached Ron and I in a kind of skip-walk motion, her hair bouncing behind her.

"Oh … erm, hi, Lavender."

She placed a hand on my shoulder. "And what might you be doing here?" she asked innocently.

"Just out with … a friend," I said, motioning to Ron.

"Really now? I was here to get a box of Cauldron Cakes to go. It's my parents anniversary, you see, and they _love_ Cauldron Cakes." She turned her aqua blue gaze to Ron and held out her delicate, manicured hand. "It's very nice to meet you …"

"Ron," I supplied. "His name is Ron."

"Hi," Ron said softly, taking her hand in a friendly, albeit brief shake.

" _Ron_ ," the girl repeated with a flirty, upward inflection. "How long have you known Hermione?"

"Umm …"

"Over two years," I said.

"Two years?" Lavender repeated incredulously. "But why haven't you mentioned him, Hermione?"

"Er …" (Because we rarely speak to each other?) "I'm sure I have at least once, Lavender."

" _Nooooo_ …" she said, beaming across the table at the confused looking Ron. "I would have remembered him."

"Order for Lavender!" one of the shop employees spoke from the counter. Lavender sighed.

"I guess I'll see you two around," she said, never taking her eyes off Ron. "Bye Hermione. Bye _Raawwwwn_." She turned away from us in such a manner that her long hair nearly slapped me across the face, leaving the overbearing scent of her flowery perfume in her wake. I watched until she obtained her box of cakes and left the shop before I turned back to Ron, who stared at me wide-eyed.

"She seems … nice."

"That's a way to put it," I replied grumpily.

"She's in your year?"

"Yes, I room with her too," I confirmed. "We're not exactly friends, though."

"Oh."

"Yeah." I took a long sip at my tea, my insides stewing.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"You … well, you said you wanted to tell me something?"

"I did." I sat my half-empty cup down, sighing. I knew there was no point in trying now: the burst of confidence I had mustered up from my rehearsals had been destroyed the moment Lavender Brown had approached in all of her bubbly girlishness. "What I wanted to tell you was … um, I just noticed you've got a smudge of dirt on the side of your nose."

"Oh, I do?" Flushed, he ran his index finger around the side of his nostrils. "I was helping Mum with the garden earlier; guess I didn't wash up as good as I thought. Did I get it?"

"You did."

"Um … is there something else you wanted to tell me, Hermione?"

I met his gaze—his beautifully penetrating gaze—and saw the twinkle of hopefulness deeply set in his neon blue. But I sighed, licked my lips, and shook my head.

"No."

* * *

Lavender wasted no time in asking about Ron the moment we returned from the winter holiday.

"So he's a Weasley?" she asked as I changed into my nightwear after dinner. "But … he's about our age, isn't he? Why isn't he at Hogwarts?"

"He's a Squib."

"A Squib?" She batted her eyes. "But … they're rather rare, aren't they?"

"It's estimated that Squibs occur in only one of every three hundred births in the wizarding world," I stated flatly. "Or so I've read."

"Wow …" the attractive girl breathed, her glossy lips glimmering in the low light of the dormitory. "That makes him very … interesting."

"Interesting?" I asked with a quirk of my brow. "He doesn't really like to talk about it, Lavender. I mean—he's not _ashamed_ of it, but, naturally, it makes him feel kind of alienated."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"Um … no," I answered truthfully.

"Do you see him at all during term? Does he visit you at Hogsmeade?"

"Well … yeah. Sometimes."

"Hmm."

"Will you two hush?" said Parvati Patil. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing a letter while using the cover of a book as a support. "Some of us are actually tending to relationships that are already _established_."

"You're _still_ talking to that boy from Beauxbatons?" Lavender giggled. "I didn't think it would last this long."

Parvati stuck her tongue out at her best friend.

"Why wouldn't it last long? He's an absolute gentleman and showed me a great time at the ball—unlike my actual _date_."

"Was Harry really _that_ bad?" Lavender asked.

"Noooo. He was just a little awkward."

"Seamus was awkward too," said Lavender. "It was kind of cute, really. And speaking of cute …" she turned her attention back to me, "are you still in contact with Viktor Krum, Hermione?"

"I write to him every so often."

"And?" Parvati urged.

" _And_ we're friends."

The two girls seemed to realize that they weren't going to get any juicy details from me, for they turned away and allowed me to peacefully settle into my four poster bed. I pulled the privacy curtains closed to ensure I would remain undisturbed for the rest of the evening, and hours later, when they thought I was well asleep, I heard them speaking softly, so softly that I almost could not discern their voices:

"Is he cute?"

"He _is_ ," Lavender excitedly confirmed. "He's got that red hair that all of the Weasleys seem to have, but … he's very unique looking at the same time. His _eyes_ , Parvati, I swear I saw them gleaming at me from across the shop."

"Are you sure they weren't gleaming for Granger instead?"

"Hermione has got a famous Quidditch star waiting for her," said Lavender confidently. "She's not messing around with Ron too. No … that'd be cruel of her. And she said they've known each other for over two years. If something were to happen between them, it would have happened already."

I closed my eyes and clamped my lips shut as a single tear threatened to dampen my pillow.

* * *

Ron's smiling face happily distracted me from The Lavender Problem when he met me at Hogsmeade a few weeks later. We had a round of butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks with Harry and Ginny before splitting up to explore different parts of the village. Ron and I walked, side by side, away from the main streets until we were heading down a path that I knew only led to one place.

"And just where do you think you're taking me, Granger?" Ron finally asked.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Mister Weasley?"

"In the chocolate section of Honeydukes."

"Do you think of anything other than food?"

"Yes, I think of lots of things!"

"Such as?"

"Such as where the hell you're taking me."

I giggled and grabbed him by the hand, ushering us forward on the snow-covered path until we were past the last bunch of bushes and high trees. Finally, an old run-down and boarded up house came into view, and I set forward with intense curiosity. Ron halted at my side.

"That's someone's house," he said.

"No. It's been abandoned for decades, Ron. Haven't you ever heard of the Shrieking Shack?"

"No."

"It's said to be one of the most haunted places in all of Britain!"

"I try not to familiarize myself with such things."

I turned away from him and stared ahead, past the ancient fence and up the small hill where the house sat, mysterious and undisturbed.

"Would you like to get a little closer?" When Ron only looked at me curiously, I added: "To the Shrieking Shack, I mean."

"Are you mad? We'll get in trouble!"

"No one's occupied that house in years, Ron. Come on, it'll be fun!"

"I dunno, Hermione …"

" _Fine_ ," I said with a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Let's just go to Honeydukes and find Harry and Ginny …" I walked past him, my head hanging low. I only made it three steps before I heard him grunt in defeat, and he grabbed me by the arm.

"Ugh, let's check this place out, then."

"Really?" I asked, excited.

"You really know how to play with a bloke's emotions. But I swear, the _moment_ I see a spider—"

"We're about to enter the most haunted house in all of Britain, and you're worried about spiders?"

"Well, now that you mention it …" he began warily as we passed through one of the openings in the rickety old fence, "… why is this place said to be haunted, exactly?"

"The exact story seems to change with each generation. The most pervasive one that I've read is that the original owners were a family of werewolves. Their loud transformations frightened the villagers—hence calling it the Shrieking Shack."

"What happened to the family?"

"No one knows for sure. They were most likely run out by the villagers. Although, there is another version that says they all ended up killing one another during one of their transformations …"

"How lovely."

"Very!"

The small ascent to the boarded up front side of the house seemed to last an eternity, but when we got there, there was no denying the menacing air of mystery that hung over the establishment, and for a moment even _I_ wondered what the hell I was doing.

"Hmm," I said, examining the impeding wood. I produced my wand from the pocket of my coat. " _Abrete Sesamo_ should be able to get us through …"

"Oi!" Ron objected. "Won't you get in trouble for using magic outside of school?"

"Article 528/2 of the 1714 Edict," I began authoritatively, "Prefects and the Head Boy and Head Girl are permitted to freely use magic within the specified spell limits of Hogsmeade village, and/or any other school regulated outing to an all-wizarding premise or site. Any other instance of underage magic is justifiable only in the case of life-threatening situations."

"So … what you're saying is?"

"That, as a prefect, I am at perfect liberty to do _this._ " I held my wand out to the boarded up door. " _Abrete Sesamo!_ "

All at once, the tightly screwed nails that held the various planks of wood in place flew away, revealing a decrepit wooden door, partly hanging off its hinges, which immediately flew open to grant us entry.

"Bloody hell!" Ron said, looking around us frantically. "What if someone saw that?"

"I doubt anyone has been this close to the house in years, Ronald." I stepped forward and tentatively poked my head through the doorway, feeling like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Finally, the rest of my body caught up to me, and I fully stepped into the Shrieking Shack, the front door of which opened to dusty hallway. "Come on!"

"You know," Ron said as he followed me inside. "If I could use a wand, I would pull it on you right now."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm not sure you're Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger wouldn't be doing something this barmy right now."

I rolled my eyes. "Step aside, would you?"

He pressed his back against one of the dusty, peeling walls.

" _Reparo_ ," I said, aiming at our place of entry. The door slammed shut and, from the outside, I could hear the boards replace themselves and the screws work back into place. "Now, if anyone were to come by, they won't see any evidence of someone having entered."

"Brilliant, you are."

"Thank you."

I casted a series of room illuminating charms before Ron and I ventured any further into the house, as it was naturally quite dark given that all the windows were covered with wood. What we found during the first half hour of our visit was that, while the site had certainly been reduced to that of a "shack" from decades of neglect, it was actually the ghost of what must have once been a happy family home. A two-story affair, the main hall led to a living area with a faded, moth-ridden sofa and armchair with a fireplace, a coffee table, and two smaller tables with lamps. The other side of the hall provided entry to a small and equally depressing kitchen, while upstairs there were two bedrooms and a wash area. Several mice scurried away in horror at the unexpected human presence.

"Blimey, Hermione," said Ron. "Come look at this."

I followed his voice into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which was occupied with a full-sized four poster bed, two side tables, and a vanity dresser with a dirty, cracked mirror. What had caught Ron's attention though was what resided in the corner of the room: a miniature crib, fit only for a very young baby. It was covered with a torn blanket, and he gingerly pushed it aside to reveal a dirty mattress and a porcelain doll with a yellowing white dress, her eyes closed in eternal slumber.

"I don't like this," he said suddenly, throwing the blanket back in place. "It feels like we're grave robbing or something."

"Yes, I understand the feeling ... We won't take a single thing. But …" I looked around at the gloomy place, "… it wouldn't hurt to clean up a bit."

"Clean up?"

"Sure. If we're going to be here for a while, we might as well make it fit for human habitation." I held my wand out at the bed: " _Terego_." The dust vanished from the faded blankets and pillows. " _Reparo._ " The cracks in the vanity mirror vanished. " _Scourgify_." The numerous cobwebs in the corners of the walls disappeared into thin air, and within the following hour the rest of the house received the same treatment. Ron stood at my side during the entire process, surprisingly mesmerized by the simple cleaning spells that I was sure he observed Mrs. Weasley perform on a daily basis.

"Gods!" he exclaimed as he took in the restored master bedroom. "Blimey, Hermione—you're amazing! I'm serious, you're probably the brightest witch of our age! If it weren't for the boarded up windows it almost looks like someone could actually sleep here!"

"It looks like someone recently has … if you know what I mean," I said through a small chuckle, motioning to a patch of messy writing on the mended wallpaper that read, in a curly script: _Lola + Davey. Forever in love. 1972._

"Ew!" Ron said, making a face. "We don't know if they came here to do _that_ ," he said as I continued to giggle at my suggestion. "Besides, 1972 isn't exactly _recent_ , Hermione."

"It's still pretty cool to think we aren't the only ones who have explored here. And now it's ours." I plopped down on the aged blue duvet, now impeccably clean, as if it were fresh out of a Muggle washing machine. I leaned back and rested on it completely, like it was my very own bed. "We can live here, Ron. We can stay here forever and ever and have kids."

"How many kids would we have?"

"Twenty-two. We could have eleven of our own and then adopt the other eleven."

"Why twenty-two?"

"It's a nice even number, don't you think?"

He laughed. "You're mad, Granger."

"Come here, would you?" I said, making a grabby-hand motion at him. He sat down next to me. "Lie back."

"What are you up to?" he inquired as he rested his head next to mine.

I nuzzled closer to him, grabbing his closest arm and wrapping it around my shoulders. The side of my face now rested against his chest, and I closed my eyes. "I missed this," I sighed. "I missed _you_."

"I missed you too, Hermione." He looked down at me. "Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just … with Harry and Ginny dating now, I can't help but feel a little …"

"Left out?"

"Yeah. I mean, even since she's broken up with Michael, boys are still asking her to hang out all the time. Ginny, she's—she's grown into quite an attractive girl, you know. She invites me to come with her, but I don't want to be a third wheel. I know those boys want to hang out with _her_ , not frumpy old Hermione Granger. And … oh, I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear about your little sister's romantic life, do you?"

"It's okay," he shrugged. "And you are _not_ frumpy, Hermione."

"I'm not as pretty as Ginny."

"You and Ginny are pretty in different ways."

"If you say so."

"Why are you so stubborn?"

I didn't answer, but instead played with a button on his shirt, enjoying the quiet serenity of our little place, where I was with him, and I could be with him until the end of the time if I so wished.

"May I tell you a horrible secret?"

"What? You once turned in a library book a day after it was due?"

" _No_ ," I replied as he chuckled. "The truth is … I often find myself wishing that you were a wizard, Ron, so you could be at Hogwarts with me and I wouldn't have to wait so long to see you. That's horribly selfish of me, isn't it?"

He sighed heavily. "No, it isn't. I feel the same way."

He stroked my hair, and we stayed like that for a while, on the cleaned inside of the abandoned house with wooden boards covering every window and door. It was Our Place now.

By the end of term, Cho and Harry had broken up on civil, mutual terms (Harry later told me that he believed her still existing feelings for Cedric prevented them from truly connecting) and Ginny had started dating Dean Thomas, which I believed accounted for several of his unexplained absences from our scheduled patrols of the corridors as prefects.

During the first month of summer I kept consistent contact with my friends, and when I was invited to spend the latter half of August at the Burrow, it was with an excited haste that I packed my trunk and said goodbye to my parents, who, by that time, had developed a tender understanding for my desire to spend at least some time at the Burrow during each holiday, and I swore by the look my mother gave me that she was well aware that I went for more than to spend time with Ginny ...

* * *

When I arrive, Ron is the one who greets me, and his sapphire eyes linger appreciatively on every inch of my face.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part II – Realities**

* * *

 **Chapter XI**

"Hermione," he says, nudging my arm.

"Huh?" I grunt, breaking out of my reverie.

"I think I lost you there for a moment."

"You did." I hoist myself up my arms and stare down at him, smiling up at me.

"What's got you distracted this time?"

"Nothing," I lie, staring at Ginny's bed, where Crookshanks has curled up and closed his eyes. "So where is everyone anyway?"

"Well, I already told you that Ginny is with Dean," he says, counting off on his fingers, "Dad and Percy are at work, Mum's visiting Miss Madeleine—that old bat still hasn't croaked yet, can you believe it?" (" _Ron_ ," I say sternly.) "Fred and George are out doing God-knows-what, and Harry's upstairs taking a nap." He beams at me. "So we're pretty much alone for now."

He finds my hand and idly runs his fingers over my knuckles. Crookshanks mews from the other side of the room, as if to remind us of his presence. Neither of us pulls away.

I love knowing that Ron and Harry have bonded so quickly in the short time they have known each other, but in the back of my mind is the sad reality that Harry spending the remainder of the summer with us and staying in the extra bed in Ron's room means that there will be no spending the night with my ginger-haired friend; no curling up next to him as he protectively wraps his arms around my slender frame.

Sometimes I wonder what game we had been playing.

* * *

The back door of the Burrow opens and Ginny, Harry, Ron, and the twins walk in with a burst of a fresh air, smelling strongly of grass, their skin browned from the sunshine—that is, except for Ron, who instead looks only mildly reddened from the prolonged exposure.

"That's the last time we ever put money on a game," says Fred.

"You were the one who suggested it!" his twin responds.

"Where's my Galleon?" Ron asks, looking rather proud of himself.

"Sod off. I'll have it for you later," Fred finishes, and with that the twins hurry off to another part of the house before their younger brother can object, and Harry and Ginny follow them, laughing in their wake.

Ron turns to me, sitting at the kitchen table, and sighs in satisfaction. "Hey."

"Good afternoon, Ron." I've got a couple of books and writing material set out in front of me, but that doesn't stop him from making himself comfortable in my neighboring chair, smiling at me.

"You should have played with us!"

"Why? So I could lose to you?"

"You could have been on my team," he chuckles. "That is if you can stay on your broom without falling off."

"Ho ho," I reply flatly, setting my quill aside. "You should really consider Quidditch as a career, Ron—if you're that good at it!"

"No Squib has ever been allowed on a professional Quidditch team, Hermione. You know that."

"That could change, if you tried."

"Wishful thinking …" He peers over my parchment. "Who are you writing to?"

Flushing, I scramble to grab one of my books to hide my letter. "Um—no one." He raises his brow at me in that _come on now_ manner, and I sigh and confess: "I'm writing to Viktor."

" _Krum?_ " he says, frowning.

"I don't know any other people named Viktor, Ronald."

"You're still in contact with him?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He says nothing, looking down at my half-written letter with a disgruntled frown. "What are you writing to Vicky about that's so important that you couldn't play Quidditch with us?"

I ignore the 'Vicky' comment. "He's asked me to come visit him in Bulgaria before I go back to school—"

"Your parents are letting you go that far to see some bloke!?"

"I'm writing to him to politely decline!"

"Oh."

"Gods, Ron," I groan in annoyance, looking away from him. "It's a nice offer, but it's too last-minute. Perhaps if he had asked me earlier I would have said yes …"

"Well, please," Ron says, a biting sarcasm underlying his words, "don't let me and Ginny hold you back from visiting your boyfriend, if that's what you'd rather do."

"Are we _really_ going to have this argument again, Ronald?"

"Are we?" he dares. "What do you see in him anyway?"

"He's nice, that's all."

"Really? Harry tells me he's a right grouchy git."

"You and Harry have been extensively discussing my relationships then, have you?"

"Never mind," Ron grumpily responds. He slumps back in his chair and regards me with hard eyes. "I think I've got a letter to respond to as well. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

He leaves, and a few minutes later Harry and Ginny reenter the room.

"I'm making hamburgers with chips for lunch!" Ginny announces cheerfully as she begins pulling out plates. "Hermione, are you hungry?"

"Oh, please," I say as Harry sits across from me at the table.

"Yeah, thanks, Ginny," he chips in.

I look up from my letter just long enough to notice Harry's eyes wandering on the side of Ginny's face as she proceeds to start cooking, and when he realizes I've noticed we both look away, not saying a word, but with a grin playing with both of our mouths.

Ron and I are somewhat stony toward one another for the rest of the day following our semi-row, although not full-on upset as we had been the previous times. By the next morning, I don't know if I expect an apology from him or not. I mean, that overbearing protectiveness he seems to have for all of the females in his life certainly seemed to rear its ugly head again, although to be fair he _had_ pulled it back before either of us said anything we would regret.

And it occurs to me—do _I_ have something to apologize for? Perhaps I'm too hard on him. Maybe I should see his protectiveness as a compliment instead of being so defensive …

I've just about resolved to hunt Ron down in his room to clear up any hard feelings over our last conversation when he comes strutting into the room, his ginger hair looking particularly sleek and his fringe attractively tousled. He's wearing this attractive grey button-up shirt that I've never seen before, coupled with dark pants and shoes.

"Where are you going?" I ask before I can help myself.

"Out," Ron replies curtly. He grabs a handful of Floo Powder from the flowerpot that the Weasleys keep conveniently stored by the fireplace, before throwing it in and ducking into the emerald flames. " _Diagon Alley!_ " he declares, and disappears with a crackle. I stare at the calming hearth, blinking rapidly in perplexity at his abrupt departure. I drop onto the nearest sofa, lost in thought. Harry eventually wanders into the room.

"Did Ron just leave?" he says, occupying the space next to me.

"Yes, he did," I respond, frowning at him. "Did he tell you where he's off to, Harry?"

"Sure, he did. He didn't tell you?"

"No."

"He's got a date."

"A _date?_ " My jaw practically drops to the floor like I were a character in one of the _Mad Muggle_ comics, and my eyes bulge incredulously at my raven-haired friend. "With whom?"

"Lavender Brown, of course." Harry narrows his eyes, regarding me skeptically, as if I've gone mad. "Are you sure he didn't mention it to you?"

"Not a word!"

"Oh … maybe he didn't want to advertise it. It is a private matter, I suppose."

"But … but … that doesn't explain—"

"I'm sure if you ask him he'd be more than happy to tell you about it, Hermione," Harry remarks impatiently.

"What's got your wand in a knot?"

"Sorry," he replies, correcting his snappy tone. He inches a bit closer to me, rubbing the back of neck. "It's just, you know, ever since I've got here I've realized …" He smiles sadly at me, his brilliant eyes resembling that of a fertile and verdant countryside.

"What is it, Harry?"

"Nothing," he finally says. "I'll tell you about it some other time."

I don't pry.

Ron returns in the early evening hours with no definite emotional residue present on his long features. I decide to be subtle in my approach; so, instead of bombarding him with questions the moment he returns (like I want to) I instead wait until after dinner to corner him in his room as he prepares for bed. I'm fortunate enough to find that Harry has occupied the loo, leaving Ron and I alone.

"So … how was your date?" I ask casually, plopping down on Harry's bed.

He raises his brow. "It was fine. I'm guessing Harry told you?"

"Well, _you_ certainly didn't tell me. How did you come in contact with her?"

Ron sighs, standing up and turning away from me. He approaches his dresser and pulls open the top drawer, fishing through it for a moment before removing his familiar Chudley Cannons nightshirt. He begins working at the buttons of his top and—oh my god—removes it right there in front of me, exposing more of his pale and freckled skin than I have ever had the pleasure of seeing before. The exquisite muscles of his back are only emphasized with every movement he makes as he discards his button-up and replaces it with his nightshirt. He turns back to me just as he deals the final yank to the bottom hem, but not before I have the opportunity to commit the image of his navel to my memory, along with the curious trail of light auburn hair that starts there and descends into his trousers …

The shirt is much too small for him now, and his muscles ripple through the thin fabric. I lick my lips.

"That day we explored the Shrieking Shack," he begins, effectively forcing me to tear my eyes away from his chest and back to his eyes, "I still think that was a completely mental thing for us to do, mind you. But anyway … after you and the others went back to Hogwarts, I decided to grab another butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks before I Flooed back home and … Lavender was there with a couple of her friends and we started talking and …" He throws his hands in the air before plopping them down on his sides dismissively. "There you have it. She asked if she could write to me. She's been trying to get me to come see her for a while now, so I figured, why not?" He smirks, sitting across from me on his own bed. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Well—I—" I hold a hand up to my mouth, choking back the slew of offensive words that I'm sure would escape if I allow myself to speak freely. "I'm … I'm hurt, Ron. You've been talking to this girl all this time and you never told me? And you tell Harry you're going on a date with her and not me? And _Lavender_ —" I spit, "—she didn't say a word to me about it either, that little sneaking—"

"I could tell you didn't like her when you introduced me to her."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't tell one of your best friends about your girlfriend!"

"I would say 'girlfriend' quite yet," he replies with an air of taunting humor. "I mean, she's flirting with me pretty obviously but I'm still testing the waters. Who knows what might happen? I will say there's chemistry, though …" Noticing my intensifying scowl, he adds, "What's got your knickers in a twist? I didn't go spare when you kept your letter writing to Vicky a secret!"

"I wasn't keeping it a secret! I just figured that it wasn't of any pertinence to you!"

"So why would you think any different of my date with Lavender?" Ron challenges. "Don't be a hypocrite."

"I …" I'm at a loss for words, reluctantly accepting the unfortunate truth that Ron indeed has a point. I cross my arms over my chest. "Fine. I'm sorry I took it the wrong way."

"I'm sorry too."

"But no more secrets between us, okay?"

He smiles, and it's warm and genuine. "Okay."

I wish him goodnight before heading downstairs to Ginny room. And, of course, the moment Ginny shuts off the light and I turn away from her to face the wall does the dreadful reality set in, leaving my eyes sting with tears: Ron is dating someone, and it's not me.

* * *

I find him in his room again the following morning. He had been curiously quiet during breakfast and declined Harry's invitation for another game of Quidditch with him, Ginny, and the twins in the orchard. I tip-toe past the watchful eye of Mrs. Weasley, knowing she would be suspicious of her son and I being alone in the same room, and gently close the door behind me when I arrive.

Ron is sitting crossed-legged on the large, Chudley Cannons rug, leaning against the side of his bed and holding a copy of _Seeker Weekly._ A wireless radio on the bedside table is lowly emanating a slow cover of Celestina Warbeck's "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love". He makes a face before reaching up and turning if off completely.

"It doesn't matter who sings that song," he says, acknowledging me. "I still don't like it."

"Are you all right today?" I ask, sitting across from him in the same style. "You didn't talk much at breakfast."

"Yeah, well …" he shrugs, setting aside his magazine. "Guess I've got a lot on mind."

"Like?"

"It's embarrassing."

"You can tell me, Ron."

"I know I can." But when he looks of me, the slightest hint of doubt tints his brilliant stare. "On my date with Lavender yesterday … toward the end of it, she acted like she wanted to kiss me. You know, she got really close to me and leaned forward … I had no idea what to do, so I just sort of … ran for it."

"You _ran_ away from her, Ronald?"

"No, not literally! I pretended I didn't notice and said I had to get home because Mum was expecting me. But how am I going to dodge it the next time I see her? She's already asked me back out for next week!"

"And you're nervous about … kissing her?"

"Well, yeah …" The tips of his ears go an alarming shade of strawberry. "I've never done it before, Hermione. What if I'm no good?"

"It's _kissing_ , Ron. There's not much to do with it."

"And how would you know? Have you ever—?" he stops as he seems to realize the answer to his own inquiry. "Oh. Vicky, wasn't it? Don't lie."

"Um … a couple of times, yes," I confirm, feeling my own face heat up. "It wasn't all-out snogging, though. It was rather innocent."

"Sure." He shoots me a disgusted expression before resuming his misery, placing his hands on the sides of his clammy face. "God!"

"Honestly, Ronald, I don't know what you're fretting over! All you do is lean forward and pucker your lips."

"Easy for you to say," he scoffs. "You've done it before."

I huff in frustration. "If you're really _that_ anxious about it, Ronald, I could …" I pause briefly, wondering where in God's name I'm going with this. But any sense of rational thought goes out the window as I take in Ron's suddenly hopeful expression, his eyes alight with curiosity.

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Well … I could show you how to do it."

"You'd do that for me?" he asks, and he looks so chipper that one might think he's Charlie Bucket and I've just handed him the last golden ticket.

"Only to prove to you how ridiculous you're being. Now … um, the first thing you do, obviously, is lean forward …" I move my face closer to his, and when Ron follows my example, his cool breath smothers my face in an intoxicating mixture of toothpaste and the orange juice from his breakfast. My heart races beneath my shirt.

"Okay," he says softly.

"Right," I respond, difficultly attempting to maintain any form of composure. "And, you sort of … go for it."

"Go for it?" He asks it so innocently, the slightest trace of doubt hidden in his tone, as if he's questioning if this is really happening. I don't blame him.

"Yeah …" I respond, almost whispering.

I close my eyes.

When Ron first makes contact, I almost jump, because the warmth of his lips feels like a thousand fireworks erupting against mine. He proceeds to press more firmly, covering my mouth with his completely, moving nervously as I hold back the extent of my enthusiasm. Then, in what must be a burst of confidence on his part, he opens his mouth ever so slightly and captures my lower lip in the resulting suction. I moan involuntarily, shuddering. He's smells like heaven and his lips are warm but his breath is cool. It's not everything I've dreamed Ronald Weasley's kiss would be like … no, it is much, _much_ more than that.

Suddenly, he snakes one of his hands up into my hair, while the other goes to small of my waist and—oh my _word_ —he gently pushes me down and I'm now lying against the surprisingly comfortable material of his Chudley Cannons rug and he's hovering over me slightly, not pressing his full weight into my much tinnier frame … but despite his restraint I can still feel the outline of his muscles, and he's surrounding me like a blanket, swallowing me whole, and he smells and feels _so_ good and everything about him and this moment is good and divine and perfect and _oh god_ his hand is now cupping my cheek and stroking it and he's devouring me as ravenously as if I were a bacon sandwich or a treacle tart and I know I must be dreaming because there is no possible way his hand has now descended and is _caressing my belly_ that my ridden-up shirt has left exposed and he murmurs something against my lips as he continues to snog me into oblivion and it sounds like you smell so good Hermione and I blush because I know he's smelling the perfume he gave me because I wear it nearly every day and I'm nearly on the verge of tears because I know I'll never be able to get the taste of Ronald Bilius Weasley out of my mouth and I'm so happy because of it and I know I'm rambling but I don't care because _Ronald Weasley_ is kissing me and—

He pulls away from me, his breathing thoroughly labored from his passionate assault on my mouth. I'm beyond spent as well, and when my fingertips touch my lips I can feel them tingling, red and swollen.

"Ron—" I gasp.

"Was that okay?" he asks through more ragged breaths. "Is that how you do it?"

I stare up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact, knowing that if I dare look at him I'll have no choice but to kiss him again, and now I no longer have a justifiable reason to do it. He clearly doesn't need any more practice … no, he's a natural …

"Yes, Ron," I manage to say, slowly sitting back up. "See … I told you there's nothing to it, right?"

"Right … er, thanks, Hermione."

"Yes, you are most welcome, Ron …" I cautiously rise to my feet, feeling dangerously light-headed. "Er … see you later, then!"

I practically run out of the room before he can say another word, and I don't stop until I'm back in the sanctuary of Ginny's room with the door locked, where I promptly run to my bed and fall on top of it (an alarmed Crookshanks leaps away in the process) and bury my face into my pillow, grinning like an idiot who has kissed a boy that she can't have—a boy who is unofficially, although tentatively, attached to someone else.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so in the course of the following half hour I do a strange combination of both—and even by the time Ginny and Harry and the twins return from Quidditch and Mrs. Weasley calls us down for lunch, the exquisite taste of Ronald Weasley is still fresh on my mouth. I grin widely at the thought that it will never go away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

 _19 December 1996_

 _Hey, Hermione._

 _I'm afraid I won't be able to make it to Hogsmeade this weekend. I'm not feeling very well. Don't worry, I don't think it's anything serious. A minor bout of the flu at most. That being said, I'm sorry I haven't spent much time with you and the others these last few Hogsmeade visits either. Lavender has me pretty tied up. I'll make it up to you soon and I hope you and the others are doing well. Keep an eye on Ginny for me._

 _Love,  
_ _Ron_

The giddy rush I normally would have gotten at Ron's closing of "love" is diminished by the news that I won't be able to see him … _again_. Perhaps I'm not as smart as people think I am. The boy gave me the best bloody snog of my life, and here I was this entire time thinking that it actually meant something—that it was a sign that he didn't really want Lavender. Was it really just practice? That kiss—that mind-boggling, fiery, nothing-will-ever-top-it kiss—did it truly mean nothing to him? I sigh in frustration.

However, it seems that I am not the only one struggling with the matters of romance.

Harry watches Ginny all the time. I see it: in the common room, as she pushes her crimson mane behind her ears while she works on her homework; in the Great Hall, while she scoops mouthfuls of her favorite Pixie Puffs breakfast cereal into her mouth; and even as she walks through the halls with the arm of Dean Thomas slung affectionately around her waist, Harry's emerald eyes follow a constant trail that always leads to her.

It is with no discernible enthusiasm that I accept his invitation to spend the last Hogsmeade visit before our winter holiday with him. We're both melancholy at having to witness the people that we like be happily involved with someone else, although Harry has been reluctant to verbally express that truth to me. Ginny is, of course, spending the day with Dean, leaving Harry and I with no other plan than to wander aimlessly through the snow-covered village after purchasing some toffees at Honeydukes (where, much to Harry's chagrin, we notice Dean and Ginny snogging in a corner by the Acid Pops).

"Ron told you he's not coming, then?" Harry asks as we leave the shop behind a group of fourth-years chewing loudly on Liquorice Wands.

"Yeah, said he's not feeling well," I reply.

"Hmm."

"Er …" I fish for something positive to talk about; we're both so broody. "Have you talked to Cho lately?"

"Not since we broke up last term," Harry replies, shaking his head.

"You know, just because you're exes doesn't mean you can't be friends."

Harry chuckles throatily. "It's sort of hard to be 'just friends' when most of the time we spent together consisted of snogging—I'm joking!" he adds, noticing my disapproving face. "We had nice talks too, me and Cho. But I still reckon she's in love with Cedric, to be honest with you … I dunno, the spark didn't seem to last long, that's all. I hope they get back together, if that's what would make her happy."

"That's so selfless of you, Harry."

"Thanks." He smiles and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close as we turn off the main street, entering a less occupied path near the village houses. "Hermione, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Well …" He looks down at his shoes and pats my shoulder a bit, clearly nervous. "I've been thinking a lot, and I was wondering … do you think Ginny—OW!" Immediately, Harry turns to address the thrower of the reasonably sized snowball that had successfully thwacked him on the back of the head, and as the attacker approaches through the thin veil of the lightly falling snow, we see it is not one, but a group of three: Draco Malfoy, along with his best friends Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, snickering wickedly.

"All right," says Harry, pulling his wand out from his pocket. "Who's the coward who threw the snowball while my back was turned?"

"Harry, you _mustn't_ ," I insist. He ignores me.

"I was doing you a favor," spits Crabbe, the overbearingly large and gorilla-like member of the Slytherin trio. "From what Malfoy tells me, the Mudblood's weasel boyfriend wouldn't much appreciate you putting your arm around her like that."

"Or is the Mudblood just a little slut?" asks Goyle, who is broad-shouldered and equally Neanderthal-esque.

Harry's hand clenches around his wand and he takes a step forward, despite my attempt to pull him back.

"Don't be so tense, Potter," says Draco, standing in the middle of his two friends. "We're not after her. No, the way she passes it around—first Viktor Krum, then the Weasley Squib, and now you—who knows what we might catch?"

The boys dissolve into a roar of guffaws, allowing Harry the opportunity to flip them a rude finger gesture as I pull him down the path, not stopping until Draco and his cronies are well out of earshot and the houses of the Hogsmeade villagers are slowly disappearing behind us. Distantly, I can make out the outline of a dingy old pub, and as we approach a sign hanging half-way off its hinges indicates that it is the Hog's Head Inn, the least reputable of the various establishments that Hogsmeade village offers.

"Think we could grab a quick butterbeer here?"

"We could get more than that. I've heard the man that runs this place doesn't care what we order as long as he gets paid. I bet we could get _firewhisky_ if we wanted to!"

" _Harry_ ," I reply in a discouraging tone.

"Just a thought," he says, shrugging. "But yeah, let's hang out here for a minute. I need to get my mind off of those prats." He opens the door of the pub, following me in. We head straight for the bar. "You really should have let me hex them."

"So you could get in trouble later?"

"It would have been worth it to see those stupid grins be wiped off their ugly faces," Harry replies. "Now they're going to go back and tell all of their Slytherin friends about how we're willing to take their shite. And then on top of all that I had to see …" he trails off, not explicitly mentioning what I'm sure would have been along the lines of 'Dean kissing Ginny'. "Ugh—this day can't possibly get any worse."

"It can't," I agree with a sigh.

(But then, of course, it does.)

Harry goes off to the loo and I have a seat at the bar and order us butterbeers. After the elderly, bearded barman places them in front of me, I grab my share and swivel in my bar stool, taking in the entirety of the place. It's one medium-sized room with dirty chairs, dirty windows, dirty rugs, and dirty everything else as well. (I nervously inspect my glass to make sure there are no bugs or dust floating in it—strangely enough it seems to be the only clean item present in the miserable place.) There's a hallway leading to the loos and a set of stairs on the wall farthest from me to what I can only assume to be the "inn" part of the Hog's Head, although I can only imagine the dodgiest of people wanting to stay in a place such as this.

There's not many people here; a few hooded figures sipping at alcoholic beverages here and there, and as my eyes glide past them toward the last table in the back of the room, I nearly drop my glass at the sight: there, in the full and unashamed view of everyone in the Hog's Head Inn, is Lavender Brown and Ronald Weasley, their bodies so closely intertwined that it's almost hard to discern where one ends and the other begins, snogging with the ferocity of a lion attacking a zebra. What _they_ are doing makes the kiss Harry an I earlier witnessed between Dean and Ginny look decidedly chaste, and there's nothing I can bring myself to do other than stay glued to my spot for several minutes, taking in the spectacle with shock, until Harry returns from the loo and taps my shoulder.

"Let's drink our butterbeers and leave, yeah?" he says in a hushed tone, so the barman couldn't hear. "This place is right filthy. There was a _slug_ in the loo, Hermione, and—what are you looking at?"

I don't answer, but Harry turns his head in the direction of my gaze and goes wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open.

"Is that—?" he says.

"Yes."

"But, didn't he say—?"

"Yes."

"Then why is he—?"

"I don't know."

"Er …" Harry picks up his previously untouched butterbeer and downs it quickly, as if consuming it will provide him the solution to the situation. He throws the appropriate amount of money on the counter for both of us and grabs my arm. "Let's go back to the castle. I think we've both had enough for today."

"No, Harry … I think I'll go say hello."

"Hermione, _don't._ I'm sure he'll explain it to us later."

"But there's no time like the present." Downing the last of my beverage, I stand up and slam my empty glass on the counter (earning a brief glare from the barman), and before Harry can object any further, I walk to the back of the pub in several long strides, placing myself directly in front of the oblivious pair. I puff up my chest and cross my arms in the most theatrical position I can muster. Then, I open my mouth and produce a particularly loud and obnoxious "a- _hem_ " and watch anxiously as the result of it immediately unfolds: Ron and Lavender jump apart and look up at me; Ron's eyes go wide in horror, while Lavender only looks mildly annoyed.

"What brings you here, Hermione?" she asks.

"I might ask you the same question," I reply, staring the couple down with hard eyes. "Or rather, I might ask _Ronald_ the same question."

" _Hermione_ ," Ron says, rising shakily to his feet. His face is quickly turning the same shade as his hair, and his mouth twitches into a nervous smile. "Um … er, Lavender and I were only—"

"Why do you need to explain anything to _her_ , Won-Won?" says Lavender, standing up next to him. "It's not like she's your mother."

"And it's a good thing I'm not," I spit. "Because if I were _Won-Won's_ mother I'd be rather concerned about why he's not in bed with a bowl of soup, since he's apparently 'not feeling very well'!"

Ron bites his lower lip. "Yeah … erm, about that, Hermione. I _did_ write that letter a few days ago. Mum gave me some potions and I was feeling a bit better this morning—"

"Oh, how convenient!" I scoff. "And you didn't bother owling me, or Harry, or Ginny, or either of the twins about your miraculous recovery because … ?"

"Well … it was last-minute! I figured you had already gone out! And then Lavender owls me about wanting to meet me here—"

"I can see why—it certainly is a secluded spot for you two to suck each other's faces!" By this point, the few other occupants of the pub, including the barman, are turning and witnessing the teenage drama unfold before their eyes, but I'm too far into it to worry about privacy anymore. "Just admit it, Ronald—you're willing to discard of your friends and family if it means getting some snogging! You've hardly even _looked_ at any of us since you got with her! And don't you care that you might very well be passing on your germs to little Lav-Lav?"

"My Won-Won looks just fine to me, Granger," coos Lavender, leaning her head against Ron's arm. "What business is it of yours anyway?"

"I happen to be his friend!"

"And I happen to be his _girl_ friend. Won-Won, why don't you tell her to sod off?"

"Lavender, she's my friend," says Ron. "I'm not going to talk to her like that."

"But she's disrespecting me!" the attractive blonde squeals, turning back to me. "You know what I think, Granger? I think you're jealous of what Won-Won and I have. You're jealous that you'll never know the kind of connection we share."

"And what sort of connection is that? Do you even know his middle name?"

"You only want him as another shiny toy on your shelf!"

"What on earth are you talking about, you daft dimbo?" I exclaim, my voice going surprisingly shrill.

"Don't make me laugh. Ever since Rita Skeeter wrote that article, we all know the truth about _you_ , Hermione. You only go after _special_ boys: Viktor Krum, the famous Quidditch player; Harry Potter, whose parents helped take down Voldemort!" she points to Harry, who looks thoroughly embarrassed at the realization that he has been noticed. "And now you're after _my_ Ron!"

"Rubbish! And what does any of that have to do with Ron!?"

"Because he's a _Sqiub!_ " Lavender stage-whispers, her voice coming out like the hiss of a cat. "You think that you'll be seen as charitable if you're with someone who can't do magic!"

My mouths hang open; Ron's face looks on the brink of explosion. "I … I absolutely do NOT think of him like that! Ron, you know that, don't you?"

"I—" Ron tries.

"Won-Won, you know how she feels about you. Do you really still want to be her friend after this?" Lavender says, putting her hands on her hips. "Because as far as I'm concerned, it's either me or her."

Resembling that of a helplessly lost puppy, Ron opens his mouth to speak, but the angry words spill from my mouth before I can stop them: "Don't bother, Ronald. I wouldn't want to cause a rift between you and your precious girlfriend. So I'll make the decision easy for you."

And with that, I turn and storm out the pub, nearly running by the time my boots touch the snowy ground once again. My eyes sting as tears come cascading down my face, and an involuntary sob escapes my throat as I slow down to a brisk walk, but I don't care if all of Hogsmeade becomes a witness to my misery.

"Hermione!" comes Harry's voice from some several meters behind me. "Hermione, wait!" A minute later his hand is on my shoulder and he swivels me to meet his gaze. I burst into tears all over again, and he brings me closer so that I may bury my face in the front of his jacket.

"I'm sorry," I hiccup through the tears. "It's just—"

"It's okay," Harry says, patting me on the back. "I know."

"You do?"

"Only me and all of the Weasleys," he answers with a light, comforting laugh. "It's actually rather obvious, Hermione."

"Not to him, apparently."

"Apparently …" Harry sighs. "He'll come around."

I remove myself from his embrace and stare into his emerald eyes, willing the tears to cease. Wiping my reddened face, I remark, with a chuckle: "Just like you'll come around to Ginny?"

"Oh. Um …" He blinks, surprised.

"You think _I_ haven't noticed?"

"That obvious, am I?"

"Yes—but then again I tend to be rather perceptive." I sniffle a bit as my eyes threaten to well up again. "Do you feel this way, Harry? When you see Ginny with Dean?"

He sighs thoughtfully: "Yes."

The snow falls gently around us on the forlorn path to the Hog's Head Inn, immersing both of us in a frigid melancholia.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII**

I lie against the bed in the master bedroom of the Shrieking Shack (Our Place), turning my head so that I can stare at the familiar patch of graffiti on the otherwise impeccably repaired wallpaper: _Lola + Davey. Forever in love. 1972._

It's funny, because it would actually be very easy for me to remove it; a mere flick of my wand and an utterance of one of the simplest of cleaning incantations. But I don't want to. I myself am no less an intruder now in 1997 than they had been in 1972, so who am I to decide which intruder's legacy should be allowed to stay and which shouldn't? They leave behind a considerably innocent patch of vandalism; I leave behind an otherwise clean interior of an abandoned shack. It seems fair enough.

I wonder if they're still in love.

A minute later, the expected knock from Ronald Weasley at the front of the boarded up house compels me to lift myself from my comfortable position and walk downstairs. I perform the usual spells to allow him entry and quickly reseal the house from the outside to preserve its supposed abandoned status. Then, I pocket my wand, and stare at him with crossed arms, immediately noticing the item around his neck: a gold-chained necklace, from which hangs the words 'My Sweetheart' on a heart-shaped pendant.

"Hi," I greet him flatly. "You said you wanted to talk to me."

"I did," says Ron, equally stilted. "Although I'm surprised you responded to my letter at all."

"I am too."

"How was your Christmas?"

"Nothing spectacular," I shrug. "And yours?"

"It was fine … Ginny was a bit mopey though, about Dean …"

"Yes, it's rather sad to think about …" I reply, "One day Harry and I see them kissing like they're in love at Honeydukes, and hardly even a week later they're broken up. Young love," I remark with melancholy.

"Did she tell you at all what prompted it? She got grumpy with me when I asked her about it."

"Of course she did; you don't just _ask_ a girl about that type of thing, Ron," I huff. "Well … it appears that Dean was a little insecure about Ginny's friendships with other people … particularly with Harry. You know, I think he started to think that maybe they had something going on behind his back."

"With Harry? No …" He rocks on the balls of his feet. "So—?"

"Are you going to tell me about your new piece of jewelry?" I ask through an amused grin. "Or am I honestly going to have to ask about it myself?"

He rolls his eyes, but his ears are already going red. "It's a Christmas gift from Lavender. She'd go spare if she saw me without it."

"Well, I'm glad to see you respect her wishes. What was your excuse to get away from her?"

"Told her I couldn't stay in Hogsmeade for long today; had a project to work on for my history class."

"Clever. So …" I beckon for him to follow me into the living area, where I sit down on the sofa, and he tentatively joins me at my side. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well … _us_ , mostly."

"I thought there wasn't an 'us' after the last time we saw each other."

"Yeah, well, I'm tired of _you_ making all of the decisions when it comes to us, Hermione," he says firmly, and I raise my brow in skepticism. "You hardly ever let me get a word in."

"Are you sure that's because of me, or because ninety percent of the time your mouth is attached to Lavender's?"

"Very funny," he replies, annoyed. "Can you at least attempt to be serious about this? God, I can't believe that I'm the one who has to tell _you_ to be serious about something!"

"What do you want from me, Ron?"

"I want whatever's going on between us cleared up for good. I'm tired of this on-and-off friendship with you, Hermione!"

"And where does Lavender fit in with all of this? You heard her: _'It's either her or me, Won-Won!'_ "

"She didn't say it like that," he says, looking more annoyed with me by the second. "And frankly, this is between you and me. Lavender doesn't have a say in who I'm friends with."

"Don't let her hear you say that."

"Forget about Lavender for five seconds, would you!?"

"How can I forget when I share a room with the girl!? Do you have any idea how awkward it's been!?"

"Ugh, I don't understand you in the slightest, Hermione Granger!" Ron exclaims, rising to his feet. "I mean one minute you're giving me advice on how to _kiss_ the bloody bird, and the next you're acting like me kissing her is some sort of personal betrayal toward you! I _wasn't_ lying about being sick, I swear—Mum had been filling me up with healing potions for days and they just happened to kick in that weekend. Sorry, I can't bloody control how my body reacts to things! So what if I felt like snogging my girlfriend when she offered? It's not like you care about me anyway!"

"What are you babbling about? Of course I care about you!"

"Oh, that's rich!" he says with an angry flourish of his arms. "Miss Hermione 'Kisses Me Like Her Life Depends On It But Then Runs Out Of The Room' Granger cares about _me_."

Until now I had been sitting down, allowing him to tower above me as he vents; but at his last sentence, I stand slowly, meeting his penetrating gaze full on. "What are you saying, Ron? I mean, I thought it was … practice."

"Bloody hell … it was some sort of practice then, wasn't it?" He looks frustrated, like he's struggling to find the right words. "I don't know what I was expecting after that kiss, Hermione, but I know I bloody well _wasn't_ expecting you to run out of the room like I had spattergroit!"

"The only reason we even kissed was because you wanted to practice for Lavender!"

"And the only reason I even found myself in the position of having to snog Lavender is because of you! You … you totally rubbed your relationship with Viktor right in my face! Sitting there, writing your little love letters to him like I wouldn't notice! I _had_ to respond somehow!"

"So that's all Lavender is to you—a _response_? You're a complete arse, Ronald Weasley—using that girl to try to … to try to make me jealous!"

"I …" he falters a bit, his expression softening. "I'm not using her. What Lavender and I have … well, it's _something!_ And besides, even if I was using her to make you jealous, it's not like you weren't doing the same thing with Viktor bloody Krum!"

"Don't you _dare_ compare Viktor and I to you and Lavender. Viktor and I actually have things in common. Viktor and I actually talk about things. Viktor and I share our interests with each other, not just our lips!"

"Then why don't you go be with Viktor and leave Lavender and I alone, if we're that beneath you? Christ, Hermione—you're as complicated as a bloody maths problem! I mean what did you expect?" Ron's lips quiver a bit and there's a definite wetness surrounding his amazingly blue eyes; I haven't seen him look this fallen since that night I went to comfort him after our encounter with Draco Malfoy. "Did you really want me to stay true to that promise we made to each other when we were stupid little kids? That we would get married one day?" he says ever-so-softly, his voice an inch above a whisper. "Did you want me to wait around until you grew tired of Viktor and decided to settle for me? Is that what you wanted?"

A tingling warmth erupts in my eyes, and I grit my teeth in attempt to hold back the tears. I step toward him, holding my arms out sympathetically. "Ron, I … I don't think being with you is _settling_. You can't possibly think that I think of you that way. Ron," I reach out to take his hands in mine, "don't you know that I lo—?"

"Gerroff me!" he says sharply, snatching his hands out of my grasp. "After all you've put me through, don't you bloody dare try to stand there and tell me that you love me. I'm sick of your games, Hermione."

"It's not a game!" I gasp through a sob, tears now flowing freely down my face. "It's not a game …"

"I think it is," Ron says, regaining the firmness in his tone. "And I'm not going to play it anymore."

There's a sharp, stabbing pain that courses through my chest at his words, and I know right then and there that heartbreak is more than just an emotion. After wiping my thoroughly reddened face, I place my hands on my sides and stand up straight in a faux sense of composure, but it doesn't last for long. Ron only stares at me with a hard expression. "Well, if you really feel that way, Ronald …" I say slowly, "then … maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore. I'll stop writing to you. And I'll stop visiting Ginny at your house."

For the second time, the stony demeanor that Ron had carried into the conversation fails, and noticeably so. The hard line of his mouth falls, and an unidentifiable emotion clouds his eyes. He licks his lips. "Hermione, don't say—"

"Isn't that what you want?" I ask, now unashamedly crying. "Isn't that what you came here for: to break it off with me? You can go and be with Lavender now." I protectively cross my arms over my heart and turn away from him. "Just _go_ , Ron."

"Hermione …" There's a brief silence between the two of us following his cool utterance of my name, and I continue to cry quietly, not ever looking back at him. Then, I hear the definite creak of his feet moving across the old floorboards, preparing to exit the room. "Can you at least open the door for me?"

I cast the spell and watch blankly as Ron exits the Shrieking Shack, turning one last time to give me a look of melancholy, but saying nothing. I immediately reseal the house and go back upstairs to the master bedroom, where I collapse on the bed and really let myself have it: I cry, for seems like hours, experiencing a myriad of emotions, but none more than sorrow. I don't think I'll ever be able to come back to the Shrieking Shack, as it is no longer Our Place, but the place where we had our last fight; the place where we ended it for good.

So, it is with a great sadness that I force myself to leave some minutes later, sealing up the old house for what I think will be the very last time. The sun is already beginning to set on Hogsmeade village as I trek down the path leading back to town, and even though as a prefect I have the privilege to be out past curfew, there is nothing I want more than to eat and go to bed. Tomorrow is a Monday and a good and rigorous first day of the school week will hopefully distract me from this disaster.

Suddenly, I hear it before I see it: a deep, distinct laughter of mischief emanating from behind some trees, and then two, then three. I come to a halt on the early January snow that still covers the otherwise deserted path. I'm still too far from the main streets to see any houses or shops, and I reach into my pocket and grip my wand.

"Who's there?" I inquire in a shaking voice.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle step out from a set of trees only a few feet in front of me, and I instinctively jump back, nearly stumbling over in the process. They laugh and approach me.

"What have we here?" says Draco, placing his hands in his pockets as he looks me up and down. "What're you doing down here all by yourself, Granger?"

"That's no business of yours, Malfoy. If anything I should ask what you're doing here."

"Hey, now, I'm a prefect too, aren't I?" the blonde replies teasingly.

"Even so, _they've_ got no business still being in the village this time of day," I say sternly, pointing to his two sniggering friends. "It's nearly dinner time."

"Funny story, Granger," Draco explains, "we were actually about to head back to the castle, weren't we boys? But then we notice the Weasley Squib come down this path, and—strange as it was—he wasn't with you! So we followed him, and it certainly looked like he went right into the Shrieking Shack!"

"Um …" I begin nervously, my face going red. But Draco holds up a hand to silence me, enjoying the tease.

"Let me finish, Mudblood. Anyway, we wondered what on earth the filthy Squib could be doing going up to that place, but then only a few minutes later he comes storming out looking like he failed all of his exams, and then to make things even more interesting, _you_ come out some time later!" The boy crosses his arms, looking rather pleased with himself. "So, it is only possible to conclude that you and Weasley were shagging in that disgusting old house, and afterwards you must have had some sort of fight, which would explain why you both look so miserable. Am I right?"

"Absolutely not, you foul little cockroach!" I aim my wand at him, and he shakes his hands in the air while Crabbe and Goyle only laugh.

"Watch it!" Draco cries in disingenuous fear. "Now I have two things to report you for, Granger! Trespassing—trespassing with the intent of whoring yourself out to Squibs, no less— _and_ for pulling your wand on a fellow prefect!" He laughs wickedly. "What will the headmaster have to say?"

"I don't give a _damn_ , Draco. As far as I'm concerned none of us were ever here—consider it a warning. Next time I _will_ hex you, you loathsome ferret."

I storm past the three boys, making sure to aggressively bump into Draco's shoulder in the process—but I only make it two steps before I feel a large hand on my arm, pulling me back.

"And where do you think you're going, Mudblood?" says Goyle, who proceeds to push me so hard with his one hand that I stagger back and fall into the snow, landing painfully on my bum. "You think you're one to give _us_ a warning?" And taking advantage of my sudden vulnerability, Goyle steps forward and kicks my wand out of my hand, sending it flying into the snow several feet away.

"OW!" I scream. "You little—!"

"Shut up, Granger," he spits, towering over me. "You need to learn your bloody place. _Locomotor Mortis!_ " he roars with a confident jut of his wand, and I'm left helpless on the snow, my legs unable to stand me up.

My heart pounding in my ears, I attempt to drag myself away on my still-free arms, cursing under my breath. "The minute I get a hold of my wand, you prats are dead. Expelled, even!"

"Oh, are we now?" Goyle snarls. "Seems to me that you're in no position to be making threats. Crabbe, do you still have that penknife your dad gave you?"

"I never go anywhere without it."

"Give it to me."

I watch in horror as Crabbe digs into the pocket of his coat and pulls forth the folded knife, tossing it to his friend. Goyle opens it and stares evilly at me; fear wracks through my frame and I've got no time to try to move before he's stepping on my right shoulder, successfully pinning me down.

"Get off of me!" I wail, squirming beneath Goyle's dirty boot.

"Crabbe, roll up her left sleeve."

In seconds, Crabbe is kneeling at my side, violently tugging at the arm of my jacket, pulling it up until my left arm is completely exposed against the cold snow. He nearly rips the fabric in the process.

"Draco!" I cry. I'm able to lift my head high enough to see the third boy just standing there. The usual coldness is gone from his grey eyes and is replaced with fear as he watches his friends. "Tell them to stop!"

"Boys …" Draco begins in a shaky voice, "what are you doing? Get off of her—she's just a Mudblood, she's not worth it."

"Don't be a prat," says Goyle gruffly, digging the heel of his boot into my arm. I'm trying with all of my might to move, but my legs are locked and Crabbe is holding down my other arm. "You're always saying what a jumped-up little slag she is. You always say she needs to be reminded of her place. So let's do it—let's remind her that no matter how smart she is and no matter how many famous Quidditch players she dates, she'll always be a filthy little Mudblood."

"We'll get in trouble, you idiot!" Draco spits angrily. "Not even my father will be able to get us out of this!"

"You're good at spells, though, Malfoy!" Crabbe reasons. "You can Obliviate her afterwards."

"And she'll never know who did it to her …" Goyle sneers, smirking down at me. "It'll be bloody hilarious."

"Do _what?_ " I cry, terrified tears staining my cheeks. "Draco, please, I'm begging you—make them stop!" I release another deafening cry as Goyle kicks some snow into my face. "Make them stop …"

"Shut the hell up, Mudblood." Goyle straddles me, his warm and rancid breath assaulting my nostrils as I cry beneath him.

When the knife first makes contact with my arm, there's a delayed reaction on my part: it stings like hell, and I open my mouth to scream, but I choke on the sound, and hot tears fall into my mouth as they come, unceasing. But by the time the first drop of my blood stains the snow beneath me, I lurch, producing a ground-shaking scream that is quickly muffled by Goyle's gloved hand.

"She's making too much noise! Shut her up, Crabbe!"

Crabbe releases his hold on me just long enough to point his wand at my face, and " _Stupefy!_ " is the last thing I hear before the world proceeds to blacken around me.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter XIV**

 _28 March 1997_

 _Hermione, I'm going to be completely honest with you here. I'm worried sick about you. Ginny and Harry say you've been acting weird for weeks, that you've barely been talking and that you've been avoiding spending time with them. I know we haven't talked for some time now and I wish I reached out to you earlier. I thought you wouldn't want to speak to me. But I need_ yo _u to know you can talk to me about_ _ANYTHING_ _that's bothering you. Please respond. I'm worried about you. We all are._

 _Ron_

I sigh, throwing the letter down and resting my head against my pillow. I shouldn't have opened it. Now what am I supposed to do? Shifting on my bed, I pull up the sleeve of my shirt and look down miserably, and it's there, slightly faded and not as puffy, but still as legible as words in a textbook: _Mudblood._

I've tried every potion and spell I could come up with, but not even my strongest vial of Essence of Dittany has done much in the way of preventing it from scarring. Instead, it remains an invasion of sepia against my vanilla-hued skin, an ugly reminder of my attack and my supposed "place" in this world. But I suppose it could be worse.

At first it had been a frighteningly neon shade of crimson, oozing copiously with my blood. I had awoken to find it trickling down my forearm and imbruing the powdery snow on which I had lain unconscious, abandoned, for an unidentifiable amount of time, although judging by the sun that had still been setting low in the sky, I had not been out for long.

The stink of Goyle's breath on my face and the feeling of he and Crabbe's hands on me was fresh in my mind as I went back to the castle, biting my lips and begging myself not to cry, my other hand pressed over my wound. Harry and Ginny had expressed a mild concern about why I was so late to come back, but I could tell they really had other things on their mind, for when I found them in the common room Harry was sitting very close to her on the crimson sofa, his arm slung around her shoulders and laughing about something that she had said. I had quickly made an excuse about being tired and wanting to skip dinner before running into my dorm, collapsing on my bed, and not emerging for the rest of the night. And as I cast a quick silencing charm before I began to cry, the question ran through my head a thousand times: _Why hadn't they Obliviated me?_

My mistake, of course, had been assuming that a reaction to the incident would be immediate: the Ministry would receive attention of underage magic being performed by Crabbe and Goyle, a representative would be sent to Hogwarts, and they would most likely be expelled, if not face a brief sentence in Azkaban for what they did to me. But only when the days passed, and nothing happened, did the answer become painfully obvious to me: both Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe were born in 1979; they were of age, and the Trace on them had broken. As far as the Ministry's or the school's knowledge was concerned, no assault on a girl named Hermione Granger had ever occurred.

I had never felt more stupid in my life—and feeling stupid is something I rarely experience, mind you. Instead of taking a stand for myself and going straight to Dumbledore's office like I know I should have, I waited for someone to do it for me, to save me from the embarrassment and shame. Had it been Harry or Ginny or anyone else in the same situation, I know I would have urged them to report the attack right away. So why did I treat myself any different?

In the days following the incident, Harry and Ginny had quickly noticed how cold and quiet I was during meals, and how even my enthusiastic answers in class had ceased. I just told them I wasn't feeling well, and avoided being near them or even giving them friendly hugs, lest the sleeves of my robes raise just enough to reveal the mark on my arm that I hid with shame.

Crabbe and Goyle snickered as they passed me in the halls. Draco avoided eye contact with me as if my stare alone would kill him. I kept my head down and said nothing until I returned to my dormitory each night, where I would place another silencing charm around my bed and cry and curse myself to sleep. _It's your fault_ , a voice in the back of my head mocked me, _you should have said something, you stupid girl._

As the the Easter holiday approached, I made the decision to return home instead of stay at Hogwarts to use the valuable week off to study, as I usually would have. Strangely enough, I found that for once in my life I didn't feel like studying, and I distracted myself instead with spending time with my parents, pampering Crookshanks, and reading for the enjoyment of it. It was only when my mother announced that had gotten a letter from "one of Ginny's brothers" that I decided to stop avoiding my friends—that, and, I couldn't help but have a burning curiosity about what Ron would possibly want to write to me about, seeing that we hadn't communicated since our last encounter at the Shrieking Shack, more than two months earlier.

But now that I'm actually looking down at his words and taking in its urgency, I'm overcome with guilt, and tears threaten to pool in my eyes as I think of what to do. Crookshanks purrs as I idly stroke his back, appreciating the attention.

"Hermione?" my mother's voice comes sweetly from the other side of the door, followed by a polite knock.

"Come in."

She opens the door and peeks her head in, smiling at me. "You have a visitor, dearie."

"A visitor?" I sit up abruptly on my bed and gently push Crookshanks aside, pulling my sleeve back down with haste.

"Yes, love, your little friend, Ron. Although he's not so little anymore, is he?" she chuckles. "I'll bring him up."

"Wait, Mum—" But she's already trotting back down the stairs, and God help me I can hear _his_ voice accompanied by my mother's as two sets of feet come back up to my room.

Mum pushes the door open all the way, and next to her is Ron, taking up most of the doorway and looking especially lean and fit and still as pale and beautiful as I remember him. He's wearing a short-sleeved green and yellow shirt that for once looks like it's made to fit him, a loose pair of faded denim, and brown trainers. His hair looks as if it has recently been cut, now hanging only just past his ears, curtaining his head in a smooth patch of red. He's stunning, as he usually is, but I've little time to bask in his physical attractiveness, because he's already stepping forward and yanking me toward him in a bone-crushing embrace. My mother grins and mutters something about "going to finish the crumpets" before leaving us alone, the door being left ajar behind her.

I hug him back, quickly melting beneath him as he runs his hands up and down my back. Crookshanks, apparently not wishing to witness the teenage affection any longer, hops down from my bed and heads out the door.

"Hi," I say softly.

"Bleeding Christ, Hermione," says Ron roughly, pulling back to stare at me. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

" _No_ ," I move away from him to quietly close the door and cast a silencing charm on the room, since I'd prefer whatever is going to occur between us to not be within my parents' range of hearing. "What do you want, Ron? It's rude to show up at someone's house uninvited."

"Rude? Hermione, you've been acting like none of us exist for weeks and you're the one calling me rude? I'm surprised to see you've even bothered to open my letter then, have you?" he says, motioning to the parchment on my bed. "Sent it first thing this morning. But I decided I wasn't going to wait to see if you'd reply. There was a pub not too far from here with an open Floo Network. I took the Muggle bus from there." He folds his arms over his chest and regards me with a stern expression. "And I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on with you."

"I don't want to fight with you, Ron. I think it would be best if you just left."

"So you can go on not talking to us for the rest of the year?"

"You're not entitled to an explanation from me."

"Hermione," Ron says in a gravelly voice, "I'm begging you. Please just tell me." He falls down on my bed and looks at me miserably. "You don't understand how worried I've been ever since Ginny started saying you've been acting funny. Harry's saying the same thing! I can't help but think that … well … that I must have really hurt you the last time we saw each other. Is that it?"

"N-No," I whisper. "No, it's nothing like that."

He pats the spot next to him on my bed, and I slowly bring myself to sit next to him, not looking in his eyes.

"Then what is it? Tell me."

"You should go, Ron," I insist, feeling my walls begin to crumble. "If Lavender finds out you were here—"

"Lavender?" Ron chuckles. "Oh, you don't need to worry about her anymore." I only look at him curiously, and he continues: "She chucked me."

"She … broke up with you?" I bat my eyes at the revelation, and Ron only shrugs.

"Yeah. She invited me out for coffee in this miserable little shop a few weeks ago and told me she just doesn't think we're 'on the same page' anymore," he emphasizes with air-quotes. "She also made it a point to tell me she was tired of me talking about you."

"You talk about me when you're with her?"

"I couldn't really help it the last few times I saw her … I was so worried about you."

"Oh, Ron, I … I'm sorry to hear it didn't work out," I lie.

"Don't worry about it. We've been drifting apart for a while now … Actually, to be perfectly honest with you, I don't think there was much between us to begin with. All she really wanted to do was snog me. It wasn't meant to last long." He places a hand on my knee, which sits exposed in my pajama bottom shorts, and I shiver at the contact. "But I'm not here to talk about me and Lavender. I'm here to talk about you."

"There's nothing to talk about. At least nothing that concerns you."

"So there _is_ something bothering you, then?"

"It's none of your business!"

"It is my goddamned business! You're my best friend! Or at least you were until you started acting mental!"

"Stop yelling at me!" I whimper, my eyes brimming with wetness.

Ron's expression softens, and he pulls me flush against him and entangles his arms around my smaller frame, one hand on my head and the other at the small of my back. He strokes my hair as I stain his shirt beyond recognition, crying like an idiot and wishing I would wake up from this nightmare.

"Oh God, Hermione," Ron groans, each syllable aching with woe. "You have no idea how hard it's been for me. I … I wanted to come back to you the moment I left you at the house. I Flooed home and thought to come right back and talk to you but … I figured you were too pissed at me to want to sort it out! And you don't know how scared I was when Ginny told me how you'd been acting." His hold on me tightens. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm sorry. But Christ, Hermione—if _I'm_ the reason you've been so sad or if I hurt you, you have to tell me. Because I'd let you hex my bollocks off before I do it again. I love you too much to see you like this ever again."

"You … love me?" I ask, pulling away slightly, a surprisingly pleasant warmth trickling down my torso. "I … I thought you felt differently after the fight we had …"

He actually chuckles: it's soft and breathy and layered with melancholy, but a chuckle nonetheless. "How could I possibly feel any different?" But when I only continue to stare at him, somewhat bemused, he speaks again on a more serious note: "Blimey, Hermione, you're a smart girl. You're the smartest person I've ever met, really. Surely you must have known …"

I shake my head.

"Hermione," he sighs, his blue gaze penetrating my own, "I … I've loved you from the moment I saw you. God knows I hadn't the foggiest what it was at first, but … yeah, I remember, the first time Ginny brought you to our house, and you looked at me with those big brown eyes of yours, it felt like …" he motions with his hands, as if trying to grasp the right words from the air, "… it felt like the first time I rode a broom. Exciting and terrifying and brilliant all at once … Bloody hell, I asked you to _marry_ me when we were thirteen and you honestly had no idea how I felt?"

"No," I whisper. "I honestly didn't. At least not to that extent."

"I don't blame you," he goes on. "I didn't know either, for a long time. For so long I chalked up the strange feelings I had around you up to simply having a girl who wasn't related to me in my house, but after a while … it's more obvious, innit?"

"Yeah … I suppose so."

He smiles tentatively at me, gauging my reaction. "Listen, um … I'm not going to push it. If you don't want to talk to me about it right now—whatever _it_ is—I'll understand. Maybe I should …" he makes a move to stand up, but I grab him by his muscled arm to keep him in place.

"Stay for a while," I insist, grinning at him. "Mum's making crumpets."

"Well, if there's food involved, I guess I have no choice."

I roll my eyes playfully as he hugs me once more, and I find that I'm on the verge of tears again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

"I'm glad you came," I say against his shoulder, cooing as he plays with my curls. "I love you too, Ron."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter XV**

I don't cry when I spend the night with Ron. There's just something so magical about sharing a bed with him again: the feeling of his arms wrapping, almost instinctively, around my waist, pressing my body against his broader, muscled frame; his nose and lips, buried deeply within my wild curls as he snores softly, and the little noises he makes every now and then, the soft grunts and moans as he shifts in his sleep—there's simply nothing like it. And it's where I'm fortunate enough to find myself in the last week of summer, in the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning while the rest of the Burrow remains in an unknowing slumber.

Things have gotten better since he visited me during the Easter holiday. I've had an easier time communicating with my friends again, even if the smile I present during the day quickly fades as soon as I'm in the privacy of my bed, where tears of anguish arise nearly every night as I stare at the slur permanently carved into my skin. It's actually been very easy hiding it from the others, given that I'm always wearing a form of long-sleeved attire. Even my parents remain blissfully unaware of the evidence of my attack, and that's the way I want to keep it, forever if possible. But in Ron's arms I'm overcome with an unwavering sense of security, like the entire world could turn into ash beneath our feet and I would still be okay as long as I'm with him.

I stir as the sunlight streams in through the window, preparing myself for the unwelcome task of having to leave.

"Mhmm," Ron objects, tightening his hold on my waist. "Don't go."

"I've got to, Ron. If I don't leave now, your mother might catch us."

"Can't you just Apparate downstairs in a couple of minutes?"

"You're not making this separation easy, Ronald."

"I never have."

"What are you going to do when I have to go back to school next week?"

"Cry," he replies solemnly. "Mope. Weep. Scheme to sneak into the castle to see you."

"You've never done any of that when I left for school all those years before."

"Yeah, well, you weren't my girlfriend before."

My heart is sent into a giddy race. Girlfriend. I'm his _girlfriend._ I wear the long-overdue title with the kind of enthusiastic pride that's brought Ginny to exaggerated frowns of disgust whenever Ron kisses my cheek in her presence. Even Harry, who is still on holiday with his parents in New York, has made it a point to remind me in his last several letters that I'm "like a sister" to him and that, while he's more than happy for us, he'd prefer to remain ignorant to any intimate details of Ron and I's relationship.

" _Er-my-neeeeee_ ," he groans through a yawn. "You're my girl, right?"

"Yes," I giggle.

"Say it. Please."

"I'm your girl," I respond with a slow and graceful cadence that I know drives him mad.

" _Gods._ " In a deft swoop, aided by the strength of his toned arms, Ron pulls me on top of him and crushes our faces together, his lips caressing my own in an ardent kiss. "You'll never know how happy it makes me to hear you say that."

"I think I have an idea." Recapturing his mouth in my own, my hands begin to trail down his long frame, affectionately petting each patch of freckled skin that I encounter, until I reach the slightly ridden down waistband of his orange pajama bottoms, and, curiously, I allow my finger to dip beneath it and stroke his hipbone.

"Oh," Ron gasps, pulling away from me. "Don't touch me there, Hermione."

I jump back, unmounting him, and feel my face ignite. "I'm sorry! I should have asked—"

"N-No, I didn't mean it like that, love. It's just … well, you know …" I give a benighted quirk of my brow, and Ron gulps, realizing he has to further explain: "I'm a bloke, Hermione. So … if you touch me like that, sometimes I can't really, er, control my reaction to it. You know? I don't want you to think I'm a randy arse or anything."

My chest gives an involuntary flutter—something between embarrassment and flattery—as I immediately understand what he means.

"You mean you actually find me attractive … in _that_ way?"

"Are you mad? 'Course I do. Any bloke with eyes would. But—er—not that I only think of that when I'm with you—"

"I understand, Ron. I … _react_ to you too," I say carefully, nervously pulling at the long sleeve of my nightshirt.

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Blimey." He throws his head back on his pillow and stares at the ceiling.

"And, Ron, please don't think that it's not something I want to eventually share with you. I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about it … _a lot_ … but, erm …" I shift uncomfortably on his small bed, pulling my knees up to my chest while staring at him innocently. "I just think perhaps we should wait a little longer. It's not that I don't trust you—I trust you my life, honestly, but, you know I've never been close with a boy like I am with you. Not even Viktor. It's sort of embarrassing, really … you must think of me as being rather silly, don't you?"

"Why would I think of you as silly?"

"Because you're more experienced than I am."

"Experienced? What do you mean?" His brow furrows in a brief state of confusion as he looks back at me, before his features soften again in epiphany. "You don't mean me and Lavender, do you?"

"Er … yes? Who else would it be?"

"No, you've got it all wrong, love," he says firmly, sitting up on his knees. "I never did anything like that with Lavender. Even if I had … well, _opportunities_ , I didn't act on them, because I didn't feel a strong enough connection to want to share that experience with her. I know that's hard to believe coming from a bloke, but honest to God, it's the truth. I love you and I've only wanted to be with you like that."

I'm overcome with emotion at the sincerity of his declaration, and I press my hands over my mouth, hiding a nymphish grin.

"You know, I used to think of you as an insensitive prat—which you still are, by the way," I add, earning a playful glare from him, "—but you can be pretty romantic when you want to be, Ronald Weasley. I admire that."

"In that case, I'll keep it up." Smirking, Ron guides me back into his embrace, my back now pressed against his torso and his hands resting on my stomach. "It's funny. I've wanted this for so long—to be able to hold you like this, and now that I'm doing it, it almost feels unreal. Like I'm dreaming or something."

"Should I pinch you?"

"No," he chuckles. "How long have we known each other again?"

"Four years."

"Blimey. We wasted so much time … _I_ wasted so much time," he muses with an air of melancholy. "I could have been holding you like this a lot sooner if I had only pulled my head out of my arse and faced the fact that I'm mad for you."

"You can't blame yourself, Ron … at least not entirely," I shrug. "I had my moments too."

"But all that matters now is what came out of it, right?" he replies brightly. "Because now I can do _this_ —" He squeezes me in his protective hold. "And this." He plants a kiss on my cheek. "Which reminds me, I need to ask you something important. It's kind of early, but I figure there's no point in waiting."

"What is it, Ron?"

"Uh, well …" he moves against me, apparently nervous, "you know, with it being our last year of school and all, I was hoping—"

Three brisk knocks interrupt Ron's inquiry, followed by Ginny's lively voice: "Ron, stop kidnapping my best friend for five seconds! You've got a letter from school, Hermione, and it looks important!"

* * *

The red, gold accented Head Girl badge shines proudly on the front of my robes as I stand on Platform 9¾, wishing everyone goodbye. Ron is even prouder than I am, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, and his lips occasionally placing an innocent kiss on my cheek as an unashamedly public display of our relationship.

"My girlfriend, the Head Girl—I can't believe it," he says gleefully. "Well, I _can_ believe it, obviously, there's no one more qualified than you, Hermione, but blimey … you know I'm going to brag about this at school right? 'My girlfriend is the Head Girl at her posh private school'—I'm telling _everyone_ , love, and you can't stop me." He presses his lips to the top of my mane, and I flush.

"Ron, my parents are here," I say, my eyes darting in their direction as they chat with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "And yours too."

"I know; I'm sorry—I'm just so proud of you, love. It's like the school is basically saying you're the very best."

"It does _not_ ," I insist. "It just means that I'm deemed both academically and behaviorally responsible enough to have a certain degree of authority over other students. That, and I get my own room," I grin cheekily, thinking of the generously furnished private quarters awaiting me in Gryffindor Tower. "But it's a lot of work too, Ron. I have to instruct the prefects on their duties, I have to watch over all of the other students whenever teachers aren't around, I have to set the best example at all times; it's not all fun and games!"

"And you'll be brilliant at it," he replies confidently. "Do you know who the Head Boy is yet?"

"I won't know until I get on the prefects' carriage, I suppose. I hope it's someone decent."

"He'll have to be if he's Head Boy, right?"

"Not necessarily. I read somewhere that Voldemort was Head Boy in his time."

The Hogwarts Express begins to whistle, the five-minute warning to everyone not already boarded. Ron embraces me once more.

"I'm going to miss you, love. Write to me whenever you can, yeah?"

"I will, Ron," I respond earnestly, hugging him back.

Another several seconds pass before we reluctantly detach, allowing me to give a final goodbye to my parents and the Weasleys and board the train, Harry and Ginny at my side. We occupy a compartment together, sticking our heads out of the open window and waving as the Hogwarts Express roars to life and begins creeping slowly forward.

And suddenly, Ron, looking positively good-looking in his dark trousers and one of his mother's homemade sweaters, begins running forward, grinning toothily and calling my name.

"Ron! What are you doing?"

"The important thing I wanted to ask you! Remember? I never got a chance to ask you!" he shouts back, just barely dodging a couple waving to their children.

"Is this really the moment?" I ask; Harry and Ginny are laughing at the spectacle.

"Yes!" he replies, running faster as the train gains speed. "My school has a big dance for all of the graduating students at the end of the year! Will you be my date?"

I'm bellow boisterously, my heart pounding beneath my badge. "Yes, Ron! I will!"

Going all the more faster, Ron reaches out and, just barely, makes contact with my extended hand, holding it for the briefest of seconds before being forced to let go.

"Good! I love you!" he yells, growing smaller by the second.

"I love you too, Ron!"

Finally, he's reduced to nothing more than a spec of ginger, and then disappears completely. Harry and Ginny waste no time in taking the mickey out of me, although it's all in good fun. In return, I give Harry a knowing smirk as I leave him alone with Ginny in the compartment to tend to my duties as Head Girl, the first of which involves meeting the prefects and Head Boy in the reserved area at the front of the train.

I open the door to the carriage and step inside, pleasantly surprised to see that most of the prefects have arrived early, chattering softly amongst themselves while awaiting instruction. They congratulate me upon noticing my badge, and I smile and thank them as I find an open seat.

My lips quickly curve downward, however, when the door opens a minute later and an all too familiar figure steps in: lean and blonde with a grey stare, and a green and silver badge reading "Head Boy" pinned to his robes, is Draco Malfoy.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter XVI**

"It's ludicrous!" I exclaim, pacing back and forth on the creaky floorboards of the Shrieking Shack (which I am happy to call Our Place again). "It's asinine! It's insane!"

"It is," Ron replies solemnly, his eyes following my every movement from his seated position on the bed.

"I mean, _Draco Malfoy?_ Draco Malfoy, _Head Boy?_ Ha!" I shriek, running a hand through my hair. "Head Boys and Girls are supposed to represent the quintessence of the school's spirit and character! And Draco Malfoy, he's— _ugh_ —"

"Your Headmaster is mad."

"No, no … Dumbledore isn't _mad_ ," I disagree, shaking my head. "He's the greatest wizard alive, Dumbledore is, but … he always tries to see the good in people, I suppose. He's probably one of the only people in the school who doesn't hold the Malfoy's Death Eater legacy against him. And, I suppose, Draco _is_ technically qualified …" I admit trough gritted teeth. "Behind me, he's the top of our class. And because no one ever actually goes through the trouble to report him for his petty bullying, I imagine he doesn't have any stains on his behavioral record either …" A sudden coldness creeps down my spine at my last admission, and I tug uncomfortably at the faded material of my long-sleeved shirt, under which my scar remains hidden as always. "But still— _Draco!?_ Why couldn't it be Harry or Neville or Dean or even Michael bloody Corner? They may not be of as outstanding academic achievement, but at least they're actually decent human beings! But nooo, of all the boys I'm obligated to communicate regularly with for the entire year, it _had_ to be him. Gods." I fall down on the bed next to Ron, sighing as he wraps a protective arm around my shoulders.

"How's he been toward you, though? Has he bothered you any more than usual?"

"Not really. In fact, he's been rather … _distant_ ," I respond.

And it's the truth. For the past four weeks of term, leading up to the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, in which I find myself with Ron, Draco had been uncharacteristically dispirited in my presence. (Mind you, the only "spirit" he's ever possessed around me stemmed from insulting my physical appearance or blood status—or, more often, both.) When we meet with the prefects, he stands several feet away from me, stony faced and avoiding eye contact, and merely agrees with the instructions I give to our younger peers, making little original contribution. Then he would walk away from me with the swift trepidation of someone fleeing from a deadly contagious person.

"As long as he's not making you uncomfortable. But I'm sorry you have to deal with him at all," Ron says firmly. "I'd change it if I could."

"I know you would," I grumble, nuzzling into his chest. "Why can't you be at Hogwarts with me, Ron? Then _you'd_ be Head Boy."

He snorts. "No, I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would. You're plenty smart, but more importantly you're a good person. You'd be in Gryffindor with me and we'd have our private rooms right next to each other. And who knows?" I say with a suggestive inflection, wriggling my brow. "Some nights I may even invite you for a sleepover …" I lean forward and press my lips firmly against his own in a brief but passionate union.

"I think I've had a bad influence on you," Ron groans. "You've never spoken like that before."

"Perhaps I haven't spoken it, but I was thinking it," I respond with a smile. "I missed you."

"I missed you too. It's only been a few weeks but it feels like forever, yeah?" He squeezes my shoulder. "I've been good on my word to brag about you, by the way. Barny has threatened to boot me from the chess club if tell one more person that my girlfriend is Head Girl. Jokingly, of course," he adds with his familiar crooked grin.

" _Girlfriend_ ," I coo; the fact alone still brings me overwhelming joy. "I love hearing you call me that."

"And I _love_ calling you that," Ron replies with an infectious tenderness. "I've been thinking about all the other things I get to call you now too, now that you're my girlfriend."

"Such as?"

"Babe, baby, darling, sweetheart, princess …" he says dreamily, pecking my cheek. "Stuff like that."

"You really want to call me all those things?" I giggle.

"Not really," he chuckles. "Well … yeah, I do, but I like saying your name too much to call you anything else. _Her-my-oh-knee_ ," he adds with a particularly admiring lilt. "I hope you realize you've turned me into a right lovesick prat, Miss Granger."

"Is that a complaint?"

"No." He smirks. "Tell me again how happy you were when I asked you."

"I was ecstatic," I supply, indulging him. "And how could I not be? First you surprise me by coming to my house over the Easter holiday, then you practically kill me by telling me that you love me, and _then_ on top of all of that you just blurt out 'Will you be my girlfriend?' as we're walking down the stairs to have crumpets and tea with my parents! Was that something you planned—to just spring it on me?"

"I dunno … to be honest I dunno if I had _anything_ planned when I came over that day. I just wanted to see you." He shifts even closer to me, grazing his teeth over his lower lip. "Mind if I ask you something?"

"Not at all."

"I know you probably don't want to talk about this, but I just want to make sure … Lavender isn't giving you any trouble, is she?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Ron," I answer sincerely. "She's barely even looked in my direction."

"Yeah, I figured as much. She was the one who initiated the break-up, after all, but I was still a little afraid she might have it in for you."

"I doubt it." I shake my head. "Although, I will admit I'm happy I'm not sharing a room with her anymore. It _would_ be sort of awkward, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I reckon."

Grinning, I hum a satisfied "mhm-hmm" and pull him forward by the neck of his shirt to embrace him once more. His lips are like feather pillows against me: soft and firm in all the right places. He moans into my mouth as he deepens the kiss, growling as our teeth bump. Even now, I'm slightly embarrassed by my sloppy osculation, especially because Ron leads the kiss with such refined technique (a skill he probably owes to his relationship with Lavender, although I choose not to ponder on that). He doesn't seem to mind, though, because he gently pushes me against the crisp duvet of the bed and continues to snog me into a brilliantly senseless frenzy. His hands eventually begin a curious trail down my body, starting with caressing my cheek, and then slowly wandering to the end of my shirt, where his fingers boldly descend beneath the fabric and cup the side of my belly, his thumb flicking over my navel.

"You're so soft, Hermione. Every part of you is soft, isn't it?" I whimper as he grabs my hands, which had previously been threaded in his fiery hair, and begins kissing each fingertip, burning me with the warmth of his mouth. He stops at the ring finger of my left hand, pressing it against his lips with an impassioned rapture. "I want to put a ring on this finger one day. I'm serious."

"Oh … oh, Ron," I whisper, my lips trembling. My whole body is trembling, honestly. I realize that my brief romance with Viktor Krum had aroused in me a childish enjoyment of innocent kissing—but when I'm with Ron, I find that much of my natural cautiousness fades away, unearthing a more feral Hermione that I never knew existed.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" he asks, a teasing smirk forming in the corners of his mouth.

"No, you insensitive prat."

"You look a bit overwhelmed is all." A look of concern clouds his features. "Do you want to stop?"

"No, not at all! I _am_ a bit overwhelmed … but, in a good way," I confess. "I'm _so_ attracted to you, Ron. It's just … you remember the last time things got a bit heated between us, we talked about it and—"

"You said you want to wait."

"Right. But, now that we're back in school and I can only see you once every several weeks, I … I want to take advantage of it." Ron's brow rises in curiosity. "Keep kissing me, please," I beg, my voice hoarse with desire.

Ron seems only too happy to oblige, and he recaptures my lips beneath his own, snogging me vehemently. I squirm and whimper and mewl beneath him, every inch of my body bursting with an aching warmth, the last of my discretion draining from my head and being replaced by pure corporeal desire. He returns to brushing his mouth on my hands, kissing my palm and nipping at my wrist. He trails further up my arm, pushing against my sleeve with his nose, and I groan loudly at the feeling of his gentle caress on the previously hidden skin—until the reality of where he's heading startles me, and I pull away from him, standing up and protectively readjusting my shirt.

"I'm sorry!" he says immediately. "Did you not want to be kissed there? Christ, I'm such a bloody idiot—I can't do anything right—"

"No, Ron, it's n-nothing!" I lie, brushing my hair from my face. "I—I just remembered, um, we agreed to meet Harry and Ginny at the Three Broomsticks at four, didn't we? We should probably get going.

"Hermione, are you sure you're all right? You look kind of … _peaky_."

"I'm f-fine. We should go." I make a move to leave the room, but Ron's hand takes a firm hold of my arm, impeding me from moving any further. The memory of Goyle doing the same thing—pushing me down and hurting me—clouds my vision, and it takes every bit of my willpower to not leap away from Ron and start crying.

"Are you _sure_ you're all right?" he asks again, very slowly, and there's a knowing gleam set deeply in his blue eyes. I gulp, forcing myself to stand up straight and meet his penetrating gaze full on.

"Yes," I say quietly, but with enough firmness that Ron releases his hold on me, and doesn't bring up my strange behavior again for the rest of the visit.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Author's note:** I would like to make all of my readers aware that the website is currently—currently as of July 31, 2016, anyway—experiencing a glitch that is causing new chapters to behave strangely. Many authors are finding that their recently added chapters disappear within minutes of being posted only to appear again some time later. This is naturally rather frustrating for authors and readers alike, but I have hope that the staff will address and fix the issue soon. In the meantime, however, if you find that links to my updates are leading to dead-ends or that my new chapters are disappearing and reappearing, that is the reason. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy our beloved Harry Potter's thirty-sixth birthday!_

* * *

 **Chapter XVII**

My lips are deliciously swollen by the time Ron returns home in the late afternoon. He seems to kiss me whenever he gets the opportunity, the boy does—not that I mind at all (quite the contrary), but I'm sure Harry and Ginny feel otherwise, as evidenced by the playful eye-rolls they gave us whenever we innocently pecked at our table at the Three Broomsticks.

After dinner I wish my friends goodnight and close the door of my room behind me, pressing my back against the wood. Now that Ron and I are officially a couple, I find that I'm even more appreciative of the fact that I have my own room, for now I'm free to bask and smile about him without facing the glares of Parvati or Lavender. In reality, the room is no bigger than the rest of the dormitories in Gryffindor Tower, but with only one scarlet-covered, four poster bed (my bed) as opposed to five, there's much more room for other luxuries that the average student dormitory does not usually allow for: I have my own wardrobe, for example, as well as a dresser for my clothes, a small writing desk, and a modest brown armchair for comfortable reading. There's also a door leading to my own bathroom. Crookshanks is especially happy my with my private dwelling, and he now spends most of his time curled up in a bushy orange ball on the armchair.

I blush as I change into my nightwear, remembering the comment I made to Ron about having him for a 'sleepover'—what's gotten into me? Today had been much too close, though, and I scold myself for almost allowing him to see my scar. I never want him to see it. And he never will, if I'm careful.

A week later I enter the Great Hall to have breakfast with my friends as usual and find a particularly distressed looking Ginny chewing vigorously on a piece of toast, brandishing a letter in her other hand.

"I don't like her!" she announces, throwing the parchment down. "And Bill has only known her for a year!"

"Well, if they _love_ each other, Ginny …" I reason.

"Oh, please," she remarks, rolling her eyes. "You remember how she was when she was here for the Tournament—strutting about the castle like she owned the bloody place, having all of the boys drool over her Veela arse." She shoots Harry a brief glare, and the boy shovels some porridge in his mouth and pretends not to notice. "And now Bill is _marrying_ her. Ugh."

"How did they meet?"

"At his job. Apparently she took up a position at Gringotts a couple summers ago to ' _eemprove 'er Eeenglish'_ ," Ginny mocks in a phlegmy exaggeration of Fleur Delacour's French tongue. "Bill had written to us saying he was seeing someone but failed to mention it was Princess Phlegm," she says with pursed lips.

"Have they set a date?"

"Says here it'll be Saturday, the twenty-seventh of December," Ginny replies, picking up the letter again. "That's only a few months away! And it only gives us a day in between to recover from Christmas!"

"It's more considerate toward us, though, isn't it? If they have it over the Christmas holiday we won't have to go through the trouble of requesting a temporary leave from school."

"I doubt that's the reasoning behind it." Ginny rolls her eyes again. "Fleur just wants all of the attention on her. Christmas; New Year's? Nope—Fleur Delacour is having her special day, that's the _real_ reason to celebrate."

"Honestly, Ginny, she isn't _that_ bad."

Unconvinced, Ginny moans about the impending wedding for the rest of the day, and Harry unsurprisingly finds great humor in all of her exaggerated impersonations of her soon-to-be sister-in-law. Following dinner, I take my accustomed patrol through the corridors to ensure there are no students out past curfew, smiling at the various paintings that wish me good evening as I pass them. With the exception of a first year Ravenclaw boy who assures me with a hopelessly lost expression that he is merely lost (I find a Ravenclaw prefect to escort him back to their common room), I am pleased to discover that the halls are appropriately empty for this time of night, and I soon resolve to head back to Gryffindor Tower.

However, as I am turning a corner on the sixth floor, I find that several new voices become discernible to my ears, and I follow the faint trail with swift strides to find a very small first-year from Hufflepuff with light brown hair and a freckled complexion, grabbing fruitlessly at a piece of jewelry that's being tossed between two large, taunting boys.

My heart jumps as I recognize them immediately, and my skin prickles beneath my robes. Draco is standing next to them, observing the situation impatiently.

"Come on, you two, haven't you done enough for today?" he asks.

"Give it b-b-back!" the girl cries. "It's mine!"

"Mudbloods don't get to wear such nice necklaces," Gregory Goyle states, dangling the gold chain out of her reach. "I think we'll get a nice Galleon or two when we trade it in at Borgin and Burkes, won't we?"

Vincent Crabbe guffaws as he nods in agreement.

Inhaling deeply, I step forward with determination and watch as Crabbe and Goyle snicker at me, while Draco tenses up.

"Some Head Boy _you_ are, Malfoy," I spit. "What'll it be, boys? Points from Slytherin or detention for the rest of this week?"

"This is no business of yours, Granger," Goyle grunts, stepping closer. He stands a good head or so taller than me and his disgustingly strong breath invades my nasal passage. He smiles, sensing my reemerging fear. "Hasn't anyone taught you a lesson about your place, Mudblood?"

My mouth hangs open, and I feel suddenly naked, hopelessly exposed in front of all of them, with my scar ripped open anew for fresh blood to drip onto the cold stone floor.

"That'll be t-twenty p-points from Slytherin," I stutter, coldness creeping down my spine. "And detention for both you and Crabbe for the rest of the week. Give the girl her necklace back and get out of my sight."

Chuckling, Goyle drops the item on the floor and shoves past me, Crabbe sniggering at his side. The Hufflepuff girl murmurs a sorrowful "thank you" before she proceeds to grab her necklace and run in the opposite direction, tears streaming down her face.

Draco looks at me, his grey eyes gleaming in the low light of the corridor, now abandoned except for the two of us. He opens his mouth as if preparing to speak, but then turns to walk away from me.

"Is this some sort of game of yours?" I ask, finding my voice again, although it comes out weak and shaky.

The blonde turns back to me. "What are you talking about, Granger?"

"What your friends are doing. Tormenting all the Muggle-borns. Do you enjoy watching it?" I step forward with each word, my limbs trembling. "You stand there and watch as it happens. Just like last time."

"I … I don't know what you're talking about, you daft Mudblood."

"Like hell you don't!" I roar, causing him to jump back slightly. "Why didn't you do it, huh? Why didn't you Obliviate me like you were supposed to? _Why didn't you!?_ "

"I—I—" His eyes grow large and wide in horror as I yank up the sleeve of my robe, exposing my scar to him.

" _Is this what you wanted!?_ " I yell, shoving my faded wound in his paling, sweat-glistening face. "You want me to live the rest of my life with this memory? Is that how much you hate me?" He's nearly backed into the wall at this point, his breathing ragged. "I _begged_ you! I begged you to make them stop! But you just stood there and watched as—as they—oh _god_ ," I cry, angry tears cascading almost violently down my reddened cheeks. "Why didn't you? Why didn't you do it, you bloody spineless arsehole!?" I take out my wand and press it to his quivering chin.

"I—I was afraid!" he laments, his voice coming out hoarsely, like the bleat of a dying animal. "I—I dunno! I t-t-thought maybe s-s-someone might be able to t-t-tack the spell back to me or something! I didn't want to implicate myself! My father would kill me! When they left you there and told me to do the spell, I—I g-got scared! So I just ran away! I—" he gasps, swallowing the air, "I'm sorry, okay!?"

"Sorry. You're sorry!?" I stuff my wand away in my robes and grab him by the collar, shaking him as he cowers. "You could have stopped them—you could have told them to leave me alone—and you're sorry!? You left me there, bleeding in the cold, and now I have to live with this ugly word on my body forever—and you're _sorry!?_ " Overwhelmed with anger, I give him a good slap across the cheek, leaving a visible white print on his clammy face. Draco doesn't fight back. "You left me there to save your own sorry arse, and you're sorry!?"

"Yes, I am! What more do you want from me?" he blubbers. "Why haven't _you_ told on them then, if you're so torn up about it? Some Gryffindor you are, you filthy little—"

"I would watch my mouth if I were you, Malfoy! I can have my wand out again in less than a second!"

"Just be thankful that's all they did to you while you were Stupefied, Granger, the way they were talking!"

"What—what're you—?" I'm silenced as the weight of his implication dawns on me.

Trembling, I slowly retreat from Draco as he stands, back pressed against the wall and still shaking. I don't stop until I'm back in my room, where I fall against the side of my closed door and allow myself to cry freely, dampening the delicate skin where the epithet remains ever present, and I avoid the cold grey stare of Draco Malfoy for the rest of the term.

* * *

"It's brilliant, Hermione!" Ginny declares, watching me as I smooth out the soft fabric against my legs.

"Thank you. It's been in my closet for ages—I think Mum bought it for me for some dinner party that ended up getting canceled, so it's still brand new."

"Well, your Mum has good taste."

The dress truly _is_ gorgeous, falling just above my knees in a floaty, ruffled material. It's a brilliant shade of ruby red, with a scooped neck covering my modest cleavage, but with just enough revealing skin to allow room for a complementing necklace. It's matched with red ribbon heels, giving me the illusion of being above average height for once in my life. I twirl in it several times, knowing my six-year-old self would be overjoyed at how utterly princess-y I appear.

The only flaw in the dress, of course, is that it's sleeveless, leaving my arms completely exposed. Luckily, however, the brief amount of time I spent at home prior to coming to the Burrow for the wedding allowed me to familiarize myself with my mother's makeup supply, and a simple concealer now successfully hides my scar. I figure it's about time I expand my options on the matter anyway, for I know it's unreasonable to think that I can get away with always wearing long-sleeved clothes for the rest of my life. For good measure, I also utilize a preserving charm on the skin, just to ensure nothing causes it to brush or fade away throughout the day.

For the past few days the Weasley home had been mad with preparation, with the usual Christmas festivities being thoroughly rushed as the date for Bill and Fleur's union approached soon after. The marquee set up in the orchard is a grand affair with rows of golden chairs and a purple carpet setting the path for Fleur's walk. The late December weather is on our side, as the snowfall is light, and a warming charm is placed on all sides of the tent to ensure that guests will be comfortable.

My arrival at the Burrow, only a few days into the winter holiday, marked the first time I met the husband-to-be William Weasley, and the second eldest Weasley brother, Charlie, both of whom had simply never been around during my previous visits. Bill, who is tall, handsome, and long-haired, had thanked me for helping his family prepare, while Charlie, the shortest and stockiest of the Weasley brothers, thanked me for dating "our poor Ronniekins". (He and the twins laughed while Ron stuck his tongue out at them.)

Fleur, on the other hand, had grown perhaps even more beautiful since I had last seen her during the Triwizard Tournament, and she kissed my cheeks and remembered me fondly as _"Veektor's lovely date",_ causing Ron to show a brief look of pained jealousy. It didn't help either that, in the midst of everything, Ron and I had found virtually no time to spend together. He had reluctantly agreed with me that it was too risky for me to sneak up to his room at night (even via Apparition) given all of the extra people sleeping throughout various parts of the house. On several occasions he had found me going up or coming down the stairs and pulled me into a breathtaking kiss, only to be interrupted seconds later by the sound of Mrs. Weasley or Fleur shouting orders from another room.

It's only now, on the eve of the wedding, that I find myself with a moment to spare in Ginny's room. Dinner had recently been consumed and we're all winding down for the evening, with a well-deserved night of sleep hanging over all of our heads. As I continue to show off my dress, there's a knock from the other side of the door, and Ron's voice comes, cheery and loud as ever: "Can I come in?"

"No, Hermione is showing me her new dress!" says Ginny.

"I want to see!"

"I want it to be a surprise!" I object.

"I'll never understand you girls," Ron groans. "So I guess you don't want any of these biscuits that Mum made either?"

Chuckling, I throw my white bathrobe over my dress and close it securely as Ginny opens the door and allows her brother entrance, taking the entire plate of fresh chocolate treats from him.

"That's your dress?" Ron jokes, snatching a biscuit and handing it to me.

"It sure is. Do you like it?"

"I like anything you wear, love."

Grinning, I place one end of the biscuit in my mouth and wriggle my brows suggestively. Ron takes the cue expertly, and steps forward and places the other end of the small treat in his mouth. He bites down, breaking it in half and kissing me in the process.

"Hmm, delicious," I say.

"You two are worse than Bill and Fleur." The plate of sweets still in hand, Ginny pops one into her mouth and leaves the room, but not before requesting that we don't snog on her bed in her absence.

Naturally, Ron and I pounce on each other the moment we're alone, falling onto my bed in a heated embrace, our hands roaming one another hungrily.

"Gods, I missed you," he groans, nipping my bottom lip. "I've barely had five minutes with you since you got here, love. I'll be glad when this wedding nonsense is over."

"I've missed you too, Ron. But aren't you happy for your brother?"

"'Course I am. I just don't like that this whole thing has been keeping me from you." He presses his lips against my forehead. "Although I will admit I can't wait to show you off to my whole family."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not some trophy, Ronald."

"You know what I mean, love. Now, are you going to take off that ridiculous robe so I can see how lovely you look in your new dress?"

"Nope. You'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Why are you so stubborn?"

"Why are _you_ so impatient?"

"Fair enough," he chuckles, and begins peppering kisses along my neck and jawline, eventually grabbing my hand and pressing his lips to my fingertips and palm, as he has grown particularly fond of doing. "I love your hands, Hermione ... That's not weird, is it?"

"Only a little bit. But don't feel bad. I like your nose."

"Now _that's_ weird." I playfully punch him with the hand he is not kissing, and he emits a throaty chortle. "But seriously, Hermione, your hands are so small and pretty and delicate."

"Dainty," I conclude with a shrug. "Yes, I suppose they are."

Nodding, Ron closes his eyes as he kisses my wrist and forearm, and I'm happy that I no longer feel inclined to pull my hand away.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter XVIII**

Ron's hand stays protectively clasped over my own throughout the entire ceremony. I can't help but cry as the eldest Weasley brother and the seraphic part-Veela exchange vows, for witnessing their love reach such a beatific height of commitment is easily one of the most wonderful things I've ever seen. Once the two are officially bonded, we all rise in applause, and the lovely golden chairs on which we had just been sitting hover into the air and duplicate—triple, even—with some being instantly transfigured into circular white-clothed tables, and slowly descend back to the ground. A space in the middle, of course, is reserved for the dance floor, and guests immediately begin moving here and there to save an ideal seat and congratulate the happy couple.

Ron lightly tugs me toward a table at the other end of the marquee, muttering something about wanting to "avoid Muriel", but I protest: "Ron, we need to go and congratulate them!"

"We have all night to do that, Hermione. Let's cop hold of a table, yeah? Oh—look, Harry and Ginny are waving us down!"

Indeed, within minutes the two had already successfully maneuvered their way through the crowd of redheads of the extended Weasley family and the equally numerable lot of inhumanely attractive blondes that made up Fleur's clan, and are now standing next to a table not too far from the buffet. Ginny looks exceptionally beautiful in her golden bridesmaid dress, while Harry is wearing a flattering set of simple emerald dress robes.

"Been crying, have you?" my female friend asks with a grin the second we approach.

"A bit. It's all so beautiful."

"Do you need a handkerchief, love?" says Ron as he fondles with his pockets of his inky black attire. "I think I've got a clean one somewhere—"

"No, no, I'm fine." I wipe some tear residue from beneath my eyes and smile back at my friends. "Where did your parents go, Harry?"

"Lost them a minute ago," he replies. "They're probably over there congratulating Bill and Fleur."

"Which is what _we_ should be doing," I insist, nudging Ron's arm.

"Oi, we practically put the entire bloody wedding together for them," my boyfriend jokes. "We can congratulate them _after_ we eat. We should grab a plate now before the line gets too long."

"Honestly, Ronald, you just witnessed your eldest brother get married—one of the most important milestones of his life—and all you can think about is the buffet table?"

"I think you've forgotten how many Weasleys there are, Hermione," Ginny chuckles. "How many weddings have we been to now, Ron? Surely this marks the second dozen."

"If not more," Ron agrees. "But I suppose I could go for some drinks and chit-chat before we tuck in. I'll go grab some butterbeers for us. Oh, but first—" Ron pulls out the nearest chair. " _Milady_ ," he offers with his lopsided smile.

I sit down, blushing as Ron kisses my cheek before leaving me with Harry and Ginny. Harry looks nervously at her, moistening his lips awkwardly, and appears to make a move to pull out her chair for her too, but she does it herself and the raven-haired boy slumps in the seat next to her, looking defeated.

Scanning the room, I am able to make out the handsome face of Cedric Diggory exchanging cheerful words with an unidentified Weasley, as well as my parents chatting it up with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Luna Lovegood is present as well, floating dreamily across the dance floor in graceful twirls. ("Brilliant, isn't she?" Ginny comments. "I made sure she was on the invite list.") There's also Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson, dear friends of the twins, the giant figure of Madame Maxine, the headmistress of Beauxbatons, as well as—

" _Herm-own-ninny."_

There's no mistaking the distinctly Bulgarian intonation, especially when it is accompanied by the familiarly large hand pressing gently on my shoulder. I turn sharply in my seat, nearly stumbling over in the process, and look up at Viktor Krum, who smiles down at me with an enthusiastic warmth.

"Viktor!" I squeak. "Oh my goodness—why—it's been so long! I wasn't expecting to see you!"

"Fleur invited me," he explains. "Yes, I saw you coming in. I was hoping to catch you before the ceremony began, but I missed you. May I sit down?" He motions to the empty seat next to me.

"Yes, of course." Harry and Ginny look at me disapprovingly. "Oh, Viktor—you remember my friend Harry Potter? And my other friend Ginny Weasley, she was at the ball with us too. She's Fleur's new sister-in-law."

The three of them exchange brief greetings, but it is clear by the way Viktor looks at me that he did not come to talk to them. Against my inner wishes, Harry and Ginny soon excuse themselves from the table to dance, leaving me alone with the young man who is, in every practical application of the term, my ex-boyfriend.

"If I may be so bold, Herm-own-ninny, I must say you have grown even lovelier since the last time I saw you." He beams, his eyes alight. "I did not think it was possible."

"Oh, well … you too, Viktor. I mean, you look more _handsome_ , that is," I correct myself, flushing. And I'm not speaking out of pure politeness either. Indeed, as I size up the twenty-one-year-old man from his seated position next to me, I notice he looks thicker than the last time I had seen him, healthier, and his face is now radiant as opposed to the skinny and sallow-skinned eighteen-year-old I had once known. He's grown out the buzz cut from his school days and now sports a full head of dark hair, handsomely spiked up at the front. His facial hair is modest and neatly trimmed, with a small beard near his sharp chin, and he's wearing a fitted assemble of handsome black robes. "Retirement has done you good. Or so I've read in the papers."

"Ah," he says softly, raising one of his bushy black eyebrows, "so I am not completely forgotten about then, am I?"

"I never forgot about you, Viktor."

"I never forgot about you either," he replies, scooting closer to me in his chair.

"Is it also true that you donated all of your Tournament winnings to orphanages in Bulgaria?"

"Yes. I have enough from my Quidditch career to live comfortably for the rest of my life. It would be dishonorable of me not to give back to the country that made me who I am."

"That's very noble of you."

"Thank you, Herm-own-ninny." He shifts even closer in his seat. "I still look forward to your letters too, whenever you send them. Although they have gotten much shorter and farther apart this past year or so, haven't they?" His gaze grows melancholy and he licks his lips. "I was rather saddened when you declined my invitation to Bulgaria those few summers ago."

"I'm sorry, Viktor. A lot has been going on in my life. It's not that I didn't want to, it was just sort of late notice …"

"No, no, please don't think I'm upset with you. I understand. I shouldn't have delayed my asking you to come." He laughs deeply. "Even after I took you to the ball, I found that I was still nervous around you. I still am, if I'm being completely honest with you, Herm-own-ninny."

"Why would you be nervous around me, Viktor? You know me."

"Yes, but what man does not get nervous around beautiful women?"

I look down in my lap and beg someone or something to save me, and as if on cue, Ron reappears from the crowd seconds later with four butterbeers, which he places on the table while looking somewhat flustered.

"Sorry it took me so long," he mutters. "My Great-Aunt Muriel got a hold of me and—" He stops upon noticing the new member at our table, and his blue eyes narrow in displeasure.

"Erm, Viktor," I begin awkwardly, "this is Ronald Weasley. Ron, this is Viktor … Krum."

"Ronald," Viktor repeats, offering him his hand.

"Hi," Ron greets shortly, accepting his grip for a firm shake.

"How do you know Herm-own-ninny?"

"I'm _Hermione's_ boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Viktor looks at me like he had been Confunded. "Oh, I'm sorry, she didn't mention—"

"Yes, well, now that it's all out in the open …" In one stride of his long legs, Ron steps to the back of my chair and takes a not-too-delicate hold of my arm. "Hermione, why don't you come and dance? With me. Your boyfriend."

Flabbergasted, I stammer awkwardly as I'm ushered from my seat and away from Viktor, who stares back at me longingly as Ron pulls me to the dance floor. He snakes his hands around to the small of my back, and I instinctively place my own on his shoulders as we start to sway, despite the fact that I'm seething.

" _Ronald Weasley!_ " I whisper, hoping none of the neighboring couples can hear. "That was quite possibly the rudest thing you've ever done!"

"What was rude about it?" he asks innocently.

"Don't play dumb! How dare you snatch me away like that!"

"Look, love—"

"Don't you dare _'love'_ me right now, Ronald! Why, I'm—I'm furious!" I say, tightening my hold on his shoulders.

"What was I supposed to do? Let your ex-boyfriend with his stupid little beard drool over you like that?"

"He was not drooling over me! He was just catching up, and for the record I was two seconds away from informing him that I'm in a relationship. What you did was completely inappropriate and rude."

Licking his lips, Ron's expression turns somber, and he sighs deeply. "You're right. I'm sorry, okay?" He pushes his lips forward in an endearing pout. "Don't be shirty with me. Please."

"That's it?" I ask with a cock of my brows. "You're not going to argue with me about how your actions are really justified?"

"I'd prefer not row with you anymore, Hermione. I'd much rather kiss and make up." He leans forward and eyes me hopefully, silently asking permission. I decide not to object, and I instead initiate the union by firmly pressing my lips against his for a few seconds before pulling back and smiling at his breathless expression. "Yeah, like that," he chuckles. "I really am sorry, love."

"I forgive you."

"You look beautiful tonight. Did I tell you that?"

"Only about twenty times. You don't look bad yourself."

"Am I allowed to say it one more time, or would that annoy you?"

"Perhaps just once more."

Simpering, Ron grazes his lips across my cheek as we continue to sway. The slow song that had been playing starts to fade, and he whispers "you're beautiful" as it comes to its final, soft note. "As much as I would love to keep dancing with you, Muriel made me promise to escort her to the buffet right about now," he groans. "Meet me at our table in about fifteen minutes? That should leave Vicky enough time to find somewhere else to go."

For the sake of the remaining civil, I decide to ignore Ron's usage of 'Vicky'. "Sure, Ron. And you be nice to your Great-Aunt, okay?"

We peck once more on the cheek before separating, and I take the opportunity to wander around the perimeter of the grand tent, taking in the expansive layout, the glowing decorations, the clusters of chatting, dining, and dancing guests, and the servants carrying around trays of butterbeer and self-refilling glasses of various beverages. It's like something from a fairy tale.

Eventually I saunter outside, marveling in the mild December air, where the melted snow from previous weeks has left the grass dewy. Looking back to ensure that no one is watching me, I step off the purple carpeted path and discard my heels, holding them in one hand, and proceed to enjoy the wetness of the green earth beneath my bare feet.

"Hmm," I moan softly to myself. I close my eyes and hear the music from inside grow lively. But my solitude does not last long.

"A bit cold out here, isn't it?" comes the gruff accent of Viktor Krum, and I turn on the balls of my feet to see him walking toward me.

"Not really," I reply, shrugging. "It's actually quite nice. I almost think that the warming charms we placed around the marquee weren't necessary."

"Ah, I suppose you are right." He stops less than a foot in front of me, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'd like to apologize if my behavior made you uncomfortable. I was not aware of your relationship with Ronald."

"Yes, erm … we've been dating for about nine months now." I look down at my naked legs, where a few blades of grass are now stuck between my toes. I can distantly hear the distinct cackling of Ron's Great-Aunt Muriel, who complains loudly about how stuffy it is and how she wishes to catch some fresh air. "Although we've known each other since we were thirteen."

"I seem to recall you once asking me to make an autograph out to a Ron Weasley. The very same?"

"Yes."

"Mmm," he hums, taking a small step closer to me. "And you are happy with him?"

"Very."

"Yes, that is good to hear." He regards me with sad, dark eyes. "Although, I have not dated anyone since you. Not seriously, at least. There have been a few, but none of them seemed to get me quite as well as you did."

I only look back at him, my heart thumping in my chest, and my feet tingling to run away.

" _Herm-own-ninny_ ," he says in a cadence layered thoroughly with emotion, "I do not wish to seem overbearing, but you must know, I loved you during the short time I came to know you during the Tournament. And now that I'm seeing you again, after so long, and I see what an extraordinary young woman you've grown to be …" His eyes bore into mine. "… I think I still do."

"Viktor, that's—that's—" I run my tongue thrice around my lips, feeling my mouth go suddenly dry. "That's exceedingly kind of you to say. I can't even express how flattered I am, but I'm with Ron now. I … I love Ron."

"May I ask, did you ever feel the same about me?"

"I … I'm not sure," I answer truthfully. "I think there was a time when I could have, or might have, but … I've always loved Ron, Viktor. You have to understand. It's always been Ron."

Viktor exhales softly, considering the matter, and releases a breathy chuckle. "I understand, Herm-own-ninny." He takes yet another step closer to me, and his broad-shouldered build, hooked nose, and bearded face are now within reach. "I shall not pursue you anymore, if that is your wish. But I'll always consider you a dear friend." He presses his lips to my cheek in a brief but firm kiss, and his beard tickles my flustered skin. "Enjoy the party, darling."

And just like that, he's gone, walking away from me and back into the marquee with his head hanging low, leaving me to stand in the wet grass with my naked feet and reddened face. With my free hand, I touch the spot where he kissed me; it's warm and tingling.

Muriel coughs loudly from near the entrance of the tent, and I'm rooted to the ground for several more minutes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter XIX**

It is to the noticeable displeasure of all the Weasley children that their Great-Aunt Muriel announces that she is spending the night. After the reception, I retreat to the kitchen, having offered to put away some of the extra food, and I soon hear Ron escorting the elderly witch through the front door of the Burrow with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley right behind them.

"… and you can have Bill's old room, Aunt Muriel," says Mrs. Weasley as they step into the house. "We've already put on clean sheets."

"Why didn't you get William to cut his hair for his own wedding?" the woman snaps. "For a second I thought he was your daughter!"

"He likes it long—"

"And that dress Ginevra was wearing—it was much too low cut!"

"That's the style these days, Muriel," Mr. Weasley says softly.

" _These days_ ," Muriel scoffs. "In _my_ time, young witches and wizards carried themselves with much more respectability. At least the bride dressed modestly, although that poor little French girl is much too skinny. Does William really see her as fit for bearing children? Just as well, though, you lot breed like gnomes. And _oh_ —Ronald, why didn't you tell me that famous Quidditch player was coming?"

"I didn't know he was invited," Ron replies grumpily.

"You should have introduced me. Then again, he seemed to be rather wrapped up with his date. Strutting about the orchard with their lips locked—"

"Date?" Ron curiously inquires, and I nearly drop the wrapped plate of leftover kebabs that I'm holding. "What date?"

"That little friend of Ginevra's … the one in the red dress. Knobbly-kneed little thing she is, too …"

"She wasn't his date."

"Well, he certainly had his lips all over her like she was. It was classless, really."

Ron doesn't say anything else, but Muriel complains all the way up the stairs. My heart pounding, I prepare a pot of tea and bring it up on a tray with several cups and a handful of leftover biscuits. The door to Ginny's room is partially closed when I arrive on the landing, and I nudge it open with my arm to find Harry sitting next to Ginny on her bed, their lips pressed together in a passionate union, and their hands in each other's hair.

Mortified, the two instantly jump apart and stare at me, stammering.

"I was just going to offer you lot some tea," I greet them in a playfully innocent manner, setting the tray down on Ginny's dresser. "But don't mind me. I'm going to get Ron." Going out the door, I stop, look back at them, and grin at their blushing faces. "It's about bloody time, you two."

On my way upstairs to Ron's room, I mentally rehearse the explanation that I know he's entitled to. Of course, Muriel had exaggerated the intimacy of Viktor and I's brief reunion, but I don't want to keep any secrets from him.

Clearing my throat, I knock thrice on his door: "Ron? Can I come in?"

He opens it a second later, and my goodness does he look handsome, with his outer robe now removed, and the white button-up he had worn beneath it now undone at the collar, with several more buttons left open to reveal his beautifully pale, freckle-sprinkled skin.

"Hey."

"Fancy some tea?"

He shrugs indifferently, and I know exactly what's on his mind. Sighing, I walk past him and into the room, immediately closing the door behind us to ensure our privacy. "Listen, Ron, I heard what your Great-Aunt said while you were bringing her up, and I need you to know that Viktor did _not_ snog me. He just kissed me on the cheek."

" _Just?_ "

"Well … I'm not saying it wasn't inappropriate. He shouldn't have done it—but honestly, Ron, it was so quick that there would have been no point in fussing over it—"

"Uh-huh," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "And would you say the same thing if it were reversed, Hermione? If it were Lavender who _'just'_ wanted to give me a little goodbye kiss? Why didn't you think to move away from him when he got close enough to kiss you?"

"I wasn't expecting it! Like I said, it happened really fast, and it was over before I even realized it had happened!"

"Whatever," Ron grunts, giving a particularly vexing roll of his eyes. "Whenever _you_ mess up it's not really your fault, is it? But if it were me—"

"Can we _please_ not do this, Ronald?"

"Why am I never allowed to be upset?"

"Because you're getting upset over nothing!"

"Some other bloke snogging _my_ girlfriend isn't something to be upset about?"

"Viktor kissed my _cheek._ "

"That's beside the point! What I'm saying is that even after I personally made _sure_ that ruddy pumpkin head knew that you're _my_ girlfriend now, he _still_ thought it was okay to try to get at you, to put his slimy lips all over you. But you know, that almost doesn't surprise me, unfortunately—it's not like anyone values anything _I_ say anyway. But I would have thought the girl who supposedly loves me would have been smart enough to stay away from him when he obviously still has feelings for you."

"You're being so dramatic, Ronald. He really didn't mean any harm. Honestly, the only reason your wand is in a knot over this is because you heard it from Muriel before me."

"And why _did_ I hear it from her first?" he asks, raising his brow. "Were you even going to tell me? Why didn't you come find me the second after it happened?"

"That would have ruined your mood for dinner, wouldn't it?"

"Please, my mood for dinner was ruined the moment I stood in line filling up Muriel's plate and saw people staring at me, because _I'm_ the only one who has to actually use the serving spoons because I can't bloody levitate food onto my plate. 'That must be the Squib' they must have been saying to themselves. God, I hate weddings—"

"Don't talk like that, Ron."

"What do you care? You know, I held off on telling the old bat that you're my girlfriend because I knew she'd make it a point to nag you even more if she knew. But I can't believe it, _I'm_ standing there getting _her_ food, meanwhile her nagging ungrateful arse walks away and catches Viktor bloody Krum kissing _my_ girlfriend. Or are you even my girlfriend, Hermione? Seems to me you have a much better time with that effing Quidditch star. You keep on defending him too."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are!"

"Ron, I'm … I'm sorry, okay?" I give in, my lips quivering. "I should have thought to step back when he got that close to me. I wish it hadn't happened, but it did. Let's not let this one little thing ruin such a lovely night."

"It's already ruined."

"Don't say that."

"Stop talking to me like you're my mother. I'll say whatever the bloody hell I want to, Hermione." Huffing, Ron sits down on his bed and kicks off his shoes, not looking at me. "Look, I'd rather just go to bed. We can talk about this some other time."

" _No_ , we can talk about it now!" I insist, standing over him. "Ron, I can't feel secure in this relationship if we don't trust each other! Even if the situation was reversed, yes I would be upset, but I wouldn't jump to all of these conclusions about you not really wanting to be with me!"

He only crosses his arms tighter, his face scrunched in anger. "I'm not jumping to conclusions," he mutters. "You just don't value what I have to say."

"Of course I do!" I groan, running my hands through my hair in frustration. "Ugh, you can be _really_ immature sometimes, Ronald Weasley!"

"Then why put up with me, if I'm such an immature little boy?" he asks sardonically.

"You amaze me. I don't 'put up' with you. I'm with you because I love you!"

"You've got a funny way of showing it!"

"What are we even playing at, Ronald? What, are we going to break up right now because of this stupid little incident?"

Ron stands up again, and he towers over me, staring me down with hard eyes. " _Maybe_ ," he spits.

"Hmm, well, maybe we should!" I reply with a contemptuous huff. "I was just thinking, perhaps we rushed into this relationship too quickly! I mean you hadn't even planned on asking me to be your girlfriend when you came to see me that day! And it's clear that _you_ , Ronald Weasley, still have a great deal of growing up to do, and I'm not going to babysit you while you do it, you overly jealous prat!"

"Fine! I'd hate to be your burden, _Miss_ Granger!"

"The feeling is mutual _, Mr._ Weasley!"

Fuming, I turn sharply on my feet, not caring if my bushy locks slap his face in the process. In one angry stride I yank the door open, storming off without bothering to close it—and it's the first night in a long time that I have no desire to spend in Ron's embrace.


	20. Chapter 20

**Part III – The Future**

* * *

 **Chapter XX**

In all of my previous times sleeping over at the Burrow, I had found that my natural inclination to wake up early, and thus make the most productive use of the morning hours, had resulted in me nearly always being the first, or one of the first, people to awaken in the large household. The morning following the wedding, however, is quite a different story: sunlight burst through the gossamer coverings of Ginny's bedroom window, and to my horror I awake to find that it is well past ten.

I trot downstairs to find my friend humming in the kitchen, her mane of ginger locks pulled back with a simple elastic band.

"I'm making breakfast, whoever you are!" she announces without turning away from the stove. "We've got bacon and eggs and fish for kippers. Mum is delivering some leftover food to old Miss Madeline so I'm taking over kitchen duty."

"I'm surprised you even have the energy for it," I greet her playfully, "considering your activities with a certain dark-haired boy last night."

Giggling, Ginny turns to meet me, and the smile on the face is brighter than I've ever seen it, stretching nearly to her ears. She pulls me into a jumpy little hug, squealing with glee as I pat her on the back.

"So what happened last night? I didn't want to ask with Harry sitting right there, but—"

"No, no, no!" she laughs, shaking her head wildly. "Oh, Hermione, it was perfect! You know I've been mad for him ever since … well, _forever_ —even when I was with Dean and Michael, to be honest—"

"What happened?"

She takes a deep breath, regaining her composure. "Well, after the reception, he was sort of wandering about the house to, you know, see if anyone needed help, since he had to leave soon. And … _you know_ , he found me in my room and he started talking about how lovely the wedding was … and how lovely I was … and how he had enjoyed dancing with me …" She wriggles her brow suggestively, biting her lower lip in a nymphish simper. "… and it just sort of … _happened_. He leaned in first."

"Then this is it right?" I ask, squeezing her arms. "You two are finally together?"

"I would have thought that was obvious!"

"Oh!" I gasp, hugging her again. "I'm so happy for both of you! I knew it would happen eventually."

"Thanks, Hermione. I guess now we've both got the boys we've loved since we were kids, huh?" Smiling, she turns away from me and starts putting bacon on the stove. "I know it's late for breakfast, but I wanted to wait until you woke up. I'm Flooing over to Harry's house later, so you and Ron can feel free to do … whatever Rons and Hermiones do when they're alone," she adds innocently, resulting in her earning an equally playful _thwack_ to the arm.

Of course, I'm glad that she isn't looking at me, because it means she doesn't notice the way my smile falls at the mention of her brother's name, and my heart sinks at the reminder that I'm going to inevitably have to face him again. Immediately following our fight, I had been successful in masking my distress from Harry and Ginny, and commenced to having tea and biscuits with them before Harry went home, having told them that Ron was feeling too tired to join us. On any other day I think they might have seen through my shaky performance—as my acting background consisted only of playing a talking tree in a school production of _Little Red Riding Hood_ when I was eight—but the two were still simply so wrapped up in one another that they paid me little mind.

As I watch Ginny cracking eggs onto a hot pan, and moving the slowly frying bacon on another, the obvious question rattles around in my head: should I tell her?

I absentmindedly twirl a frizzled lock around my index finger, considering the possible outcomes of confessing to her the circumstances of Ron and I's fight: one, she sides with Ron, which she may be naturally inclined to as his sister; two, she sides with me, which she may also feel obligated to do considering that I'm the girl who's been her best friend since her first year at Hogwarts; or three, which seems to be the most Ginny-ish possible result, she concludes that we've both got our heads up our arses and should work it out.

I open my mouth to speak: "Hey, Ginny—"

"Breakfast will be ready in about fifteen minutes," she says. "You should go wake up Ron."

"Right," I sigh. "Okay."

Gulping, I stand up straight and begin the long ascent to Ron's room, but by the time I reach the third floor I'm struck with the reality that I simply don't have it in me, that I'm embarrassed, that I'm ashamed of how I spoke to him, and of how I quite possibly ruined the best thing that has ever happened to me beyond repair. I lean against the bathroom door and will myself not to cry—but, just as soon as I do it does the support move away as someone opens the door, and I fail to reach out in time and fall flat on my arse.

"Oomph!" I rub my sore thighs as the person responsible for my falling walks around to face me, and I'm terrified to look up, because I already know who it is.

"Hermione, I'm sorry!" says Ron, his voice deliciously husky in that way that it always is when he's only recently awaken. "I didn't know you were there."

"No, no, it was my fault." Shaking my head, I look up to meet his gaze, and nearly gasp at the sight he offers me: Ron, clothed only in a white bathrobe that clings to the rippling muscles of his still partially dripping frame, with his hair dark, wet, and matted away from his recently shaven face—yet he stands there looking more concerned about the effect of my fall than the effect his fresh-out-of-the-shower appearance is having at me, another testament to how he is almost offensively unaware of how physically attractive he is.

He holds out his hand, which I accept, and slowly rise to my shaky feet.

"Thank you," I mutter. "Er—I didn't know anyone was in there."

"I was in the shower."

"I didn't hear any water running."

"I was out a while ago, but, you know, I still had to shave and stuff."

"Right." I gulp. "Um, Ginny wanted me to tell you that breakfast will be ready soon."

"Oh, great."

"Yeah, she's making bacon and eggs and kippers."

"Cool."

"Should I wake up Muriel?"

He shakes his head. "Dad already saw her home earlier this morning."

"Oh, all right then," I say, fidgeting with my fingers. "I … um, I never realized how much Ginny enjoys cooking!"

"Takes after Mum, I suppose," he says, shrugging. "She's been watching her prepare feasts for our family nearly every day for her whole life."

"Right, of course." I tuck my hair behind my ears and stare at my feet. "Listen … Ron …. about the other night …"

"Yeah?" he asks softly.

Summoning every ounce of my Gryffindor courage, I force myself to lift my head, refusing to be wavered by the piercing blue eyes that look back at me, or the temptingly full, parted lips on which he drags his tongue across.

I couldn't say exactly which one of us opens our mouth first, but the words "I'm sorry!" spill from both seemingly simultaneously, and from there we're each saying it a dozen times in quick succession, as if we don't even realize we're speaking on top of one another.

"Ron!" I squeak, my eyes brimming with tears. "I—I—I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am, darling! I don't know what came over me, talking to you like that—"

"No, I'm sorry!"

"No, _I'm_ sorry, Ron! It really is my fault!" I step forward, cupping his face with both of my hands and assaulting his cheeks, nose, and lips with relentless kisses, panting maniacally. "You're right; you're absolutely and totally right! I should have never let Viktor get that close to me—the only reason I did was because I knew I'd have to tell him that my heart belongs to someone else, that I'm irrevocably in love with you, and that I've always been—"

"Blimey, you really told him that?"

"Yes, Ron, I did! But even then, I should have told you right away that he kissed me; I shouldn't have downplayed it. I'm so sorry and—and—and that stuff I said about thinking we rushed into things and that we should break up—I didn't mean a word of it!"

"I didn't mean it either! It never happened, love."

"I'm more sure of you than anything in my life, Ron. And—and you're right, if it had been Lavender who had kissed you, I would have hexed both of you into next week!" (He chuckles throatily as he kisses me back.) "You had every right to be upset with me, Ron, every right. For someone who prides myself on my intellectual capabilities I can be so unforgivably thick sometimes—"

"I wouldn't say that, Hermione."

"No, it's true! I can give you a two-parchment essay on the history of the persecution of werewolves in wizarding society; I can give you a detailed list on the uses and benefits of a draught of Mandrake, but I can't tell you when the boy—no, the _man_ —who loves me and only wants the best for me gets rightfully jealous and protective. Can you ever forgive me?"

Nodding, Ron seizes me in a gentle kiss, his lips moving tenderly against my own, and for those several breathtaking seconds I can clearly taste all of him and the sharp mint of his toothpaste.

"I'll take that as a yes," I chuckle, relieved. "But you're still mad at me right now, aren't you?"

He shrugs, smiling sadly. "A little. You've got to know, Hermione, that I _am_ a jealous prat. I'll own up to that. Even before I knew he had kissed you, just knowing he was in the same room as you, that he was looking at you with even the slightest idea that he might still have a chance—it set my bloody teeth on edge. I mean, er, oh bloody hell—" he exhales in frustration as he grasps for the right words, and he raises his arms to my waist and snakes them protectively around me.

"Tell me, Ron," I urge him. "Whatever you want to say, just say it."

He looks at me seriously. "Here's the thing, Hermione …" he begins again, taking a deep breath, "I promise I won't be one of those possessive blokes who, I dunno, tries to control who you talk to and punches any man who looks at you, but the fact is that there _will_ be more men who look at you … and try to court you or whatever the word is for it—because whether you realize it or not, love, you're bloody gorgeous. And … like I said, not possessively, but I _do_ want them to know that you're _my_ girl, that there's no point in looking because they've got no chance. And not just blokes either, but the entire bloody world. I'm sorry, but that's just my mentality when it comes to you, and if that makes me a jealous prat, then so be it. If you can forgive me for being that, then I can forgive you for letting that bearded arse kiss you, even if it was only on the cheek."

I press a hand over my heart and beam at him, teary-eyed and breathless. "Ron, I … I wouldn't have you any other way, you know that? Jealous prat and all."

"Really? You wouldn't even trade me in for a Ron who could do magic?"

My heart nearly breaks at the mere question, especially when I see that he is not joking, but staring all me all the more serious and unsmiling.

"Not even, Ron."

"Blimey, Hermione." He presses me tighter against him, and I blush furiously as I'm reminded that the only thing separating me from his bare body is his one thin little bathrobe. "At this rate you're going to kill me before I see eighteen. My heart is going to give out from loving you so hard. Which reminds me …" He offers me a coquettish grin. "Did you hurt your backside during that fall of yours, love? Because, as your boyfriend, I'm more than willing to massage it for you …"

"I don't think so." I gently slap his wandering hands away and detach myself from his embrace, beckoning him downstairs. "We've got a late breakfast to eat, and I think Ginny has something very important to tell her favorite brother about last night too …"

"What is it?"

"I'd rather her tell you."

"Well, in that case …" Grabbing me by the hand, Ron twirls me back into his loving hold as gracefully as if we had rehearsed it. "… just let it be known that _you_ can tell me anything too, Hermione," he says, pecking me firmly on the tip of my nose. "You know that, don't you?"

His grasp on me is so pleasantly secure, but, as I meet those hypnotizing pools of sky blue, I wonder if he can sense the slightest trace of uncertainty in my smile, and I'm tempted to clutch the long sleeve of my shirt to ensure it still covers the slur engraved in my skin.

But Ron assures me that I can tell him anything ….

… can I?


	21. Chapter 21

_**Author's note:** In between updates for _ Lola _, please consider checking out my new canon-compliant story,_ **Ronald Loves You** _. It's a short, sweet, and ultimately Romione oneshot told from Harry's eyes, and it flows in the style of a "missing moments" story. Also, if you like_ Lola _, you should definitely take a gander at my other AU Romione tale_ **The Teenage Wasteland**. _Thanks for reading!_

* * *

 **Chapter XXI**

"You were _crying_."

"I was not."

"Yes, you were."

"I told you. It was stuffy in that old cinema. My eyes just got a little irritated."

"'A little irritated' is not the same as bawling your eyes out, Ron."

"Good thing I _wasn't_ doing that, then," he concludes, slumping down on his bed with a satisfied smile.

"Honestly, Ronald," I say, rolling my eyes, "crying isn't anything to be embarrassed of. It's not like anyone saw you, anyway. Just me and—"

"—that one little girl with her Mum, and Harry and Ginny. Then again they seemed too busy canoodling to notice me crying."

"Ah-ha!" I shout, pointing at him in triumph. "So you admit you were crying, then!"

His eyes widen as he realizes he's caught in his own admission. "No, what I _meant_ was—I—oh, bloody hell," he gives in, chuckling in defeat. "Okay, _perhaps_ a tear or two of genuine sorrow rolled down my cheek. Can you blame me? I thought the prince was going to die!"

"I _still_ can't believe you've never seen _Beauty and the Beast_ before today," I reply, joining him in laughter. "It's like one of those films that literally everyone has seen at least once."

"Well, it's not like as a kid I was jumping up and down at every opportunity to watch girly movies."

"Says the man who took me to see _The Princess Bride_ at the very same cinema just a few years earlier."

"That was different." Reaching out, he grabs me by the hand and gently pulls me down next to him. I roll over on his familiar Chudley Cannons blanket, sighing with content as he embraces me with a loving kiss. "I was still trying to court you back then."

"Speaking of which …" I begin, threading my hands into his fiery locks, "… I'm very proud of how maturely you're handling Harry and Ginny's new relationship, darling."

He shrugs. "I'd rather her be with Harry than some bloke I don't know. Although I hope they keep the snogging to a minimum when I'm around."

"Let's not be hypocrites now. I seem to recall you leaning over to kiss me at least twice during the film, young man."

"Fair enough." Grinning, he closes the small gap between us and kisses me once more (he tastes strongly of the fizzy drink and candies he enjoyed at the cinema), this time for a solid minute, and then breathlessly detaches himself from my lips to stare at me curiously.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he breathes. "I just realized … you kind of look like her."

"Like who?"

"The girl in the movie. Belle."

I snort in dismissal. "No, I don't."

"No, really! Her hair isn't big like yours, but it's the same color. You've both got chocolate eyes too … and even the same little nose." He gently pinches the sides of my nostrils between his thumb and forefinger. " _And_ both of you being bookworms on top of all that? Blimey, Hermione, if they ever make a live-action version, I'm pushing you to the front of the audition line."

"Did I ever tell you I once played a talking tree in _Little Red Riding Hood?_ " I ask, humoring him.

"You did not." He quirks his brow, amused. "I had no idea I was dating a famous actress."

"I sure am!" I nod. "It was my job to warn Little Red that there was a mischievous wolf in the area. I wasn't very successful, obviously."

"If she didn't heed her own mother's warning, what made you think she'd listen to a talking tree?"

I stick my tongue out at him. "Don't ask me! I didn't write the script!"

"Mmmm." He purrs lowly as he plays with a lock of my stubborn curls, wrapping it gently around his finger and petting it with his thumb. "Well, did _I_ ever tell _you_ that before we got together, I used to write poems about you?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes," he admits, ears going red. "They were really cheesy too, like the lovesick prat that I was."

"Do you remember any of them?"

"Not off the top of my head, no. I used to scribble them on random pieces of paper at school. Most of them I threw away, but there were a couple that, I dunno … stuck with me, for whatever reason."

"And where might they be?"

"Oh … God knows where," he replies innocently, but his eyes dart almost instantly to the top drawer of his dresser, giving himself away.

I immediately jump up from the bed and bolt to the drawer, giggling as Ron attempts to stop me, squirming defensively as he tightens his hold on my waist.

"No you don't!" he protests.

"Come on, Ron! Just one!"

"No!"

I yank on the handle to the drawer and sink my hands deep to the bottom, past the various sloppily folded articles of clothing, and sure enough, I soon make contact with a wrinkled piece of folded paper, which I promptly retrieve from its long forgotten grave of t-shirts and woolly socks.

"I don't think so," Ron says, snatching it from me.

" _Pleeeeeaaaassseee?_ " I beg.

"Why are you so set on embarrassing me?" he huffs. "I should have never opened my mouth …"

"I don't want to embarrass you, Ron. I want to read it because I think it's sweet that you wrote poems about me!"

He looks at me for a long moment, and then sighs deeply. "You're not going to like it," he says, holding out the folded sheet. "It's _really_ corny, Hermione."

I make a move to take it from his grasp, but, thinking it over, I push it back toward him.

"Will you read it to me, please?"

"Ugh, why?"

"Who better to read the poem than the poet?"

He rolls his eyes and reluctantly unfolds the paper. "Just keep in mind, Hermione, I was like fifteen when I wrote this—"

"Ronald Weasley—" I begin to scold.

"Okay, okay! I'm starting!" The tips of his ears are already blooming red. "There's actually two on this paper. This first one's a haiku … we were learning about different types of poetry and it just sort of came to me one day in class," he explains. "Um … it doesn't have a title."

"It doesn't need to," I encourage. "Go on."

"Right, um …" He clears his throat, looking down at the long script of his slightly younger self: " _The bushy-haired girl; a book always in her hand; not knowing she's loved_."

"Loved by whom?" I ask, my heart fluttering.

"Well … by me," he answers, flushing. "I told you, Hermione, you've had me around your finger since the moment we met. Er … do you want me to read the other one too?"

"Yes, please."

"All right." His eyes dart nervously between me and the paper. "This one's called 'Hermione'—creative, I know," he adds, seeming frustrated with himself.

"I'm sure it's wonderful, Ron. Read it."

"Fine, um … _Her eyes are brown and wide,_ " he recites in low voice, gazing at me for approval. When I only nod, he continues, more confidently:

 _Like melting chocolate, she can't be denied.  
_ _A lion's mane for hair,  
_ _To be without her, I could not bear.  
_ _Books, cleverness, beauty, and more.  
_ _Her surface is divine, but at her core,  
_ _Is the reason my heart races.  
_ _And my desire to be in her good graces.  
_ _I've never said that I'm in love,  
_ _But with her, my heart soars like a dove.  
_ _And I can only hope she has a clue,  
_ _Hermione Granger, I'm mad for you._

He finishes with a breathy little sigh, and slowly brings his eyes up to meet mine again, his tongue lodged in his cheek. "Pretty bad, eh?"

"Oh … oh, _Ron_ ," I breathe, holding my hands over my thumping heart. "Did you really write that?"

"Yeah … it's not Shakespeare," he replies sheepishly.

"No … no, it's not. It's _you_. And that alone makes me love it more than anything Shakespeare ever wrote."

He smiles weakly at me. "Thanks, love. You're completely mental, but thanks."

Rolling my eyes, I gently take the paper from his hands. "Would you mind very much if I kept this, Ron? I'd like to put in my photo album."

"The one I gave you? You still have it?"

"Of course I do," I say, beaming at him.

"Okay … but, Hermione, keep this between us, all right? The last thing I need is another reason for the twins to take the mickey out of me."

"Fine, _Ronald_ ," I reply sternly, folding the paper and placing it in the pocket of my jeans. "Although I'm being completely honest with you when I say that writing me love poetry is nothing to be embarrassed of. It shows a more sensitive and romantic side of you."

"I know it does," he says, stepping forward and kissing me on the forehead. "That's exactly why I don't want them to see it." I glare at him in annoyance, but he only laughs as he takes me in a bone-crushing hug. "But thank you for being honest with me, love."

I close my eyes against his chest and take in his deliciously woodsy sent—with _Mudblood_ pressed against his back as I hug him in return, unbeknownst to him, hidden beneath my pink cardigan—and I wonder when, or if, I'll ever be able to _truly_ be honest with him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter XXII**

Returning to Hogwarts after New Year's proves to be especially emotionally draining—not only because it means it will be at least another month until I can see Ron again, but also because I'm faced with the reality that I am already half-way through my final year of Hogwarts; a mere six months away from graduation, and being thrust into magical society as a work-ready young adult—and all the inherent responsibilities that come with it.

Settling back into my private room, I take out the photo album that Ron had given me some years earlier, and flip idly through the various preserved memories of my boyfriend and I as younger teens, as well as a number of candids of Harry and Ginny, the twins, my parents, and the other Weasleys, and, most recently, a picture an attendant at the old cinema had been more than happy to take of Ron and I's double date with the new aforementioned couple, as well as Ron's adorably saccharine attempts at love poetry, which I read to myself over and over with an ear-to-ear grin plastered on my face.

Our last outing to Diagon Alley had been Harry's suggestion a few days following the wedding; he expressed that he was eager to spend more time with us before the end of the holidays, although I had a feeling he only insisted on the double date so that Ron could observe his gentlemanly behavior toward Ginny. I had a wonderful time with them, although the somber truth always lingered in the back of my head—that with every passing day, I was actively lying to my friends, to my parents, to the boy I loved—and my skin tingles every time I tell them "I'm fine" when I'm actually screaming on the inside.

To the outsider, it must be hard to fathom why I simply don't tell—and, to be completely honest, it's hard for me to understand too. But every time I want to open my mouth, the pain, mortification, and shame of the incident and the permanent mark it has left on me renders me unable to produce the truth. The memory eats away at me from the inside out, invading my dreams every night I'm not curled up next to Ron. (Nabokov, the Muggle author, once penned about poison festering in a wound that wouldn't heal—a quote that I make note of for sentimental reasons.)

January passes without variation, and it is with great happiness that I agree to meet Ron at Our Place for the first Hogsmeade weekend of the new term, which also happens to fall on Valentine's Day. Harry and Ginny agree to meet us later on for butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks, and I arrive in the village early to purchase the most expensive and beautifully wrapped box of chocolate truffles from Honeydukes, concealing it in the large pocket of my coat before heading to the Shrieking Shack.

Ron arrives an hour later, and for the first fifteen minutes following there is little conversation, as our lips meet fiercely for a long-overdue snog in the master bedroom. Things grow increasingly steamier by the minute—and once again my immense physical attraction to the youngest Weasley son is brought to the forefront of my attention, and judging by the raw desire in which he kisses me back, I think it's safe to say he feels the same way about me.

"I've been thinking," he says some time later, once we've broken apart purely because we're breathless, "after we graduate from school, we should just move in here. Wouldn't that be cool? Our own little place."

"I don't think my parents would approve of me moving in with a man this early," I tease, running my hands up and down his muscled arms. "Especially when that man is so … tempting."

"Mmm." He chuckles deeply in his throat before taking me in another kiss. "I fantasize about doing everything with you, Hermione. I mean it—the ring, the big house, the kids, the arguments over the proper way to discipline them—" (I snort loudly) "—the growing old and dying together. I'm gonna want it all, love. I'm sorry to say you're sort of stuck with me until the day my heart starts beating." He presses his lips to the tip of my nose. "And even after that."

"If that's the case … don't be sorry."

Smiling, I gently grab him by the back of his head and press him to me once more, our hands innocently wandering along our heavily clothed bodies. Gently, Ron places his knees on either side of my waist, hovering over me as we continue to kiss.

"You look so pretty like that, Hermione," he groans, "with your hair all spread out on the pillow—so beautiful."

I close my eyes and sigh in pure ecstasy as Ron's lips find my neck, spreading out my arms on the bed like an angel's wings and simply allowing myself to become lost in the sensation—the euphoria induced only from being absolutely and totally adored by Ronald Weasley; something that I am proud to say I'm the only one to experience—sorry, Lavender.

Ron takes my hands and kisses them, paying special attention to my ring finger, before nipping lightly at my wrists. I shift uncomfortably, realizing that I'd forgotten to apply the makeup to my scar this morning, an error I hadn't worried about until now given that the cold weather made it reasonable for me to wear one of my Mrs. Weasley-made jumpers.

"No … Ron," I whine. "Kiss me again."

"Just a second, love. You know how much I love your pretty little hands." He pushes up the sleeve an inch, nuzzling the sensitive skin.

"Ron, I said _no_." Snatching my hands away, I push him off of me and stand up from the bed, looking affronted as I smooth my jumper back into place.

"Well … god, Hermione," he says slowly, embarrassed. "I won't kiss you there anymore if it bothers you that much. But last time you didn't have a problem with it."

"Yeah, well, last time we were in your nice warm room. It's cold in here," I lie, feigning discomfort as I grab the sides of my arms and move my hands up and down. Looking for a change in the subject, I walk over to the dresser where our coats and placed in a heap. "I know we agreed on no presents, but I couldn't resist—"

"Now that I think of it," Ron interrupts me, rising from the bed as well. A certain hardness comes over his features, and he stares at me, unsmiling. "This is the second time you've had that reaction when I've kissed your hands … your left one, specifically." I fidget nervously as his eyes dart from my hands (which I am now clasping together protectively) to my eyes, regarding me with suspicion. "Is there something you're not telling me, Hermione?"

"N-No," I say. "You're being silly, Ron."

"Am I?" he asks, taking a step closer. "I thought we once agreed not to keep secrets from each other."

"And I've been good to my word," I lie, turning away from him and fumbling in my coat pocket. "Now, I know how much you like—"

It all happens so fast. Ron takes hold of my shoulders and swivels me around to face him, and then, as I gasp in protest, yanks up the sleeve of my jumper with such swiftness and strength that I'm afraid he's going to rip it—but I'm more afraid, obviously, of the fact that my arm is now exposed to his searching eyes, and I summon every ounce of my strength to snatch my hand away, pressing it against my chest.

"Ron, don't—"

"No, Hermione. What the bloody hell is wrong with you? What are you hiding from me?" He takes my arm back in his powerful grasp, turning it over and finally observing the scarred skin.

My heart feels on the brink of arrest.

 _Mudblood_ now stares up at the both of us, and Ron slowly tilts his chin upward, meeting my wet gaze with wide blue eyes, his lips quivering as his mouth hangs slightly ajar—he looks absolutely terrified.

"H-Hermione," he struggles. "Did … did you do this to yourself?"

"No." I attempt to take back my arm, but his grip remains as firm as a brick. "I didn't."

"Then who did? Tell me," he says firmly.

"Ron, I … I really don't want to talk about it. It happened a long time ago. It's … it's nothing." My tone is surprisingly calm and leveled, especially considering that there is a waterfall prickling in my eyes.

" _Nothing?_ " He holds up my arm, bringing the slur to my eye-level. "Does this look like _nothing_ to you, Hermione? You … you were attacked!"

"Ron, please, I—I don't want to start any trouble. It's … it's my fault." The tap in my eyes is finally turned, and the warm, blinding wetness pools at my lids before falling in heavy streams down my flushed face. "I … I should have pulled my wand on them quicker. I should have told someone right after it happened."

"Who's 'them'?" he asks gently, putting his other arm around my shoulders. "Tell me, love."

"They—they—they came out of nowhere," I whimper. Ron releases his hold on my arm as I bring my hands up to my face, cupping my cheeks and shaking my head back and forth as the memory replays freshly in my head. "He said I deserved to be taught a lesson and—and— _oh god._ " I release a loud sob, and Ron is instantly there, burying my face in his chest as I cry and shake. He effortlessly picks me up and brings me back to the bed, where he sits down and rocks me back and forth as if he were comforting a child. "They—they _hurt_ me, Ron." I grasp onto his shirt as if he's the only thing keeping me from falling—because, in truth, he is.

"Tell me who they are, Hermione," he says quietly, although I can tell by the strain in his voice that he's struggling to hold himself together. "Don't do this to me, love. You've got to tell me. You've got to tell me right now who did this to you."

"It …" I gulp, breathing raggedly. "It was Malfoy's friends—Crabbe and G-Goyle. Malfoy was there too, and … and I _begged_ him to make them stop!" I blubber into his shirt, a year's worth of hiding the truth now spilling forward in violent waves of tears. "I begged him to make them stop, Ron, but he just stood there and … w-watched!"

"Tell me what happened, Hermione, if you can." He strokes my hair, nuzzling my frizzled mane.

I cry for several more minutes before I find the strength to take him through the memory from the very beginning: "It … it happened that day we met here, to talk about our relationship—you know, after I yelled at you and Lavender at the Hog's Head." I sniffle, wiping my runny nose with my sleeve. "The day we broke off our friendship. I was walking back to the castle and … they came out from the trees … they said they'd been following you …. and Goyle, he … he hexed me so I couldn't move …" Every couple of seconds I start sobbing uncontrollably again, leaving me incapable of coherent speech. Ron remains outwardly calm: nuzzling my hair, offering me comforting utterances of "shhh" and "it's okay, everything's going to be okay" while continuing to rock me slowly and kissing the top of my head. "Crabbe had a penknife … Goyle took it … and he got on top of me and … and it hurt _so_ much, Ron … and I was screaming too loudly, so they Stupefied me … they left me there, bleeding in the snow …"

"Oh … oh god, Hermione," he groans, his voice cracking. "I … I can't even …"

"I've been doing everything I could to hide it. Always wearing long-sleeves, putting makeup and charms on it. I … I never wanted you to see it. Or anyone."

"Why, Hermione?" His sounds utterly grief-stricken, and I look up to see his eyes streaming with those all too familiar drops of melancholy. "Why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you tell _me_?"

"I … I wanted to, at first," I explain softly. "But … I felt so ashamed. I felt so ashamed and embarrassed for letting it happen to me."

"You didn't let it happen," he asserts. "This kind of thing is never _ever_ your fault."

"I know … and I know had it been you or Harry or Ginny I would say the same thing … but I could just never open my mouth."

He tightens his hold on me, his arms crushing me against his chest as he sniffles with tears. "And … and you said they'd been following me?"

"Yes … Draco said after you left me they saw you walking back toward the village."

Ron curses under his breath. "I walked right past them … and I didn't do anything."

"You had no way of knowing, Ron."

"I should have … I shouldn't have left you here."

"Ron, don't—"

The last of his walls give way, and he too releases a loud sob, weeping wretchedly as he presses his lips to my face several times, yelling "I'm sorry!" with each pained kiss. "What have I done to you, Hermione?" he laments, his tears mixing with my own as he continues to use his lips to mark my face with heartbroken caresses. "What have I done, Hermione?" he asks again, breathless. "What have I done …"


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter XXIII**

His face buried in my hair, Ron's cries come out like the low mewling of a cat; he's breathing so heavily and murmuring unintelligibly—and had I thought I knew heartbreak before, it is nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the pain currently pulsing through my chest as I too snivel against him, holding him as fiercely as he's holding me, as if the mere act of detaching would kill us both. "What have I done? What have I done to you?" he whispers into my wild brunette mane, again and again.

I've never seen him so broken, and the ache in my wretched being is only augmented by the knowledge that my lying to him—to _everyone_ —is part of the reason it hurts him so much. It bubbles in my stomach: the biting guilt mixed with the overwhelming desire to just be near him forever and ever, to never have to be without the warmth he emits as he tightens his hold on me.

"I … I'm so sorry, Ron," I tell him weakly. "I lied to you for so long … I've lied to everyone …"

"Don't apologize, Hermione. I should have known," he insists through his tears. "Harry and Ginny noticed … they wrote to me about how distant you'd been acting, but … god, I thought _maybe_ it was because you were still upset with me; I'm such a bloody idiot. I shouldn't have dropped it after I came to your house that day—I should have kept asking—"

"That wouldn't have done any good," I assure him, sniffling. "I would have just shut down even more. It … it haunted me so much, Ron. The memory of them holding me down—calling me that awful word." Wincing, my eyes trail down to the epithet, dark and derogatory on my arm. "It used to look a lot worse. I tried to prevent it from scarring with some spells and potions, but … it didn't heal it completely. I just … I _wanted_ to forget. I wanted to pretend it never happened. When they held me down, it … it _hurt_ so much."

"Oh … Hermione, Hermione, sweetheart, look at me," he moans, gently grabbing the sides of my face. He's never called me such an endearing pet name before, and I look up at him to see wet blue eyes and a sad, pained upturn of his lips struggling against his freckled features. "I'm so proud of you for finally opening up about this, but I have to know … have you told me absolutely everything?"

"Y-Yes," I say, nodding.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I repeat.

"No, love …" He runs the pads of his thumb along the tear-stained skin beneath my eyes, effectively wiping away the warm moisture. "I need to know. Did … did any of those bastards …" He trails off, looking at me with fear in his eyes. "Did they … you know …" He motions weakly into the air with his hands, appearing utterly hopeless.

"No—no," I answer him, already knowing what he's trying to ask. "No, they didn't."

"How can you be sure? I mean if they Stupefied you—"

"I woke up with all of my clothes on."

"That doesn't mean anything. They still could have _easily_ —"

"I don't want to think about that, Ron!" I press my hands over my face, shaking in his arms.

He's silenced immediately, crushing me against his torso once more. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm so, so, so, so sorry, love."

"No, they didn't … they didn't do that to me, Ron … they didn't … don't make me think of that … don't make me think of what they could have done …"

We stay like that for a little while longer, with him rocking me gently as I cry dejectedly into his shirt. He's murmuring under his breath in a husky, disgruntled tone: "It's okay, I'm never going to let anyone hurt you ever again," and then, even angrier, "I'm going to strangle all three of them. I'm going to strangle them until the light leaves their bloody eyes."

"D-D-Don't speak like that, Ron," I whimper. "There's nothing to be done about it anyway."

"Nothing to be done about it? You're kidding, right? Hermione, the _second_ I see those bastards I'm going to kill all three of them for even _thinking_ they had the right to put their hands on you."

"You know you can't _actually_ do that, Ronald."

"You're right. I'll kill them _after_ their trial." Setting me down on the bed, he stands up and stares down at me with newfound determination. "This is what's going to happen right now, Hermione. We'll find Harry and Ginny, and then you're coming home with me. We'll tell my dad everything, and he'll have Ministry officials knocking on your Headmaster's door within the hour to round up those pathetic wastes of life. Come on." He holds out his large, bony-fingered, freckled hand, and I simply stare at him with my mouth agape.

"But, if we take this to the Ministry," I say quietly, "that means I'll have to get up and tell them what happened."

"And I'll be right next to you when you do it," he says firmly.

"I—I can't."

"Yes, you can. I know you can. You're the strongest person I know."

"This … this is all happening so fast, Ron. I … I don't know if I'm ready to do this." I look down at my shaking hands. "I don't know if I _want_ to do this."

Sighing, Ron bends down on his knees, hovering at my eye level. "Hermione … listen to me, would you?" I slowly tilt my chin up to meet his hard gaze. "You're … you're the strongest person I know, okay?" he starts again a second later. "But I've already told you that, haven't I? You're brilliant and courageous and … well, you amaze me, really. You've always amazed me. But just because you're a Gryffindor and you're supposed to be the epitome of bravery and all that rubbish doesn't mean you have to face everything alone. I … I know you think it would be easier if you just forgot about all this—pretend it never happened—I know that's what you _think_ —" I open my mouth to speak, but Ron raises his hand tentatively. "Hear me out, love. This isn't going to go away by itself. They're going to keep doing stuff like this if they think they can get away with it, and … and it's okay to ask for help. It's not letting them win. If anything, _this_ —" He grabs my hand and holds up my scarred arm. "— _this_ is letting them win. Hiding it from the people that care about you—letting what they did scare you and control your life. I just want to help you, Hermione. Please … _please_ let me help you."

He finishes with a hopeful inflection of his voice, looking at me with those beautifully blue, glistening eyes. Then, licking his lips, Ron stands back up and offers his hand to me again—and this time, I slowly accept it, finding solace in his protective hold as I have so many times before.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter XXIV**

The sound of my modest heels clicking and clacking along the floor of the Ministry of Magic is foreign to me; it's so unnervingly hollow, echoing down the long, dark hallway as I approach my assigned courtroom. Ron is next to me, and my parents, Harry, Ginny, and the other Weasleys are trailing close behind, none of us speaking for a long moment.

"It's going to be okay," Ron assures me in low voice. "This is practically an open-and-shut case, innit? They have your memories as evidence!"

"That doesn't mean their defense won't try to argue possible memory tampering. Those types of spells are very advanced and generally leave traces if performed incorrectly, but still—"

"It's going to be fine. I'm sure of it." He takes my nearest hand, brings it up to his lips, and kisses it, and I smile at how absolutely protected I feel by his mere presence, as I always have.

(But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.)

A week earlier, following my long-overdue explanation to Ron in the privacy of Our Place, a secluded corner in The Three Broomsticks had served as my site of confession before my two other best friends, and when I had started to ease Harry and Ginny into my admission as they sipped unknowingly on their butterbeers, Ron squeezed my hand beneath our table. Upon finally pulling up my sleeve, Ginny had to practically physically restrain Harry, who cursed under his breath about "wanting to find the bastards right now"—although she too looked on the brink of a violent outburst. They suggested taking me to Dumbledore's office immediately, but Ron had been adamant in his plan to bring me to his father first.

"I don't want to go through your ruddy school—this needs to be taken straight to the Ministry," he had said with such determination that neither Harry nor Ginny argued any further. (They must have bumped their side of the table too in the process of sitting back down, for both of their drinks toppled over in their laps in a warm, foamy mess, which Harry promptly cleaned with his wand.)

Within the hour I was sitting at the dining table of the Burrow, proclaiming every last detail of my assault as Mr. Weasley recorded the information in his notepad. Both he and Mrs. Weasley were beyond horrified at hearing what had happened to me, even more so at the efforts I had taken to conceal it—and the fear in their eyes only reminded me of the inevitably approaching task of having to tell my parents the same thing.

Mum and Dad had been pleasantly surprised to see me home, unannounced, but the smile on their faces quickly faded when I told them, as calmly as I could manage, that I had something very serious to discuss with them. Their eyes had immediately darted to Ron, who had stood beside me, and, as embarrassing as it was, I had blurted out "I'm _not_ pregnant" just to clear the air of any suspicion on that matter. (Ron blushed and asked if I still wanted him there, to which I replied I couldn't do it without him.) Watching the progression of my parents' fear and heartbreak become evident on their faces was an ordeal in itself, but once it was all over, they held me for several minutes in a solemn, tearful silence.

The enormous weight that had been ever-present on my shoulders since the attack slowly started to lift, but I knew I had to stay focused if I wanted justice, which is what Mr. Weasley was determined to see through. In light of the circumstances, I was granted a temporary leave from Hogwarts in the days preceding the trial, during which Harry and Ginny wrote daily, informing me that Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle had been absent from class, their faces not seen in the Great Hall or within the many corridors of the school either. In the meantime, Mr. Weasley enlightened me on all the formalities of being present in the court of magical law. "Just tell the truth, Hermione," he emphasized in the end. "That's what you have—and it's the most valuable evidence there is."

With Mr. Weasley's words echoing in my head, and his youngest son's hand gripping my own, I take a deep breath and enter the courtroom.

* * *

"I should have punched that bloke in the face."

"No, you shouldn't have," I sigh, setting my jacket on the top of his dresser. "It was a perfectly legitimate question, Ron."

"It was an _insensitive_ question is what it was. 'If the _alleged_ incident was so traumatizing to you, why didn't you simply Obliviate yourself of the memory, Miss Granger?'" he imitates in the man's nasally speech.

"I was prepared for it," I say, shrugging. "Like it or not, Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco were entitled to a defense."

"Well, their _defense_ was a professional arse. Of course you didn't just go and wipe your own slate—the only thing worse than waking up with that word on your arm and knowing how you got it is waking up and _not_ knowing how you got it, right?"

I nod, reaching out to grab his hands. "It doesn't matter anymore. It's all over now."

"I know. Mmm." Embracing me, he allows his lips to linger passionately along my own. "I'm so proud of you. You were so brave up there—they couldn't even look you in the eye, the cowards. Do you think they'll get a hearty three meals a day in Azkaban? I hope not, they look like they can stand to miss a few, anyway. They deserve it."

"Let's not think about them anymore, darling," I say in a small, breathy voice, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"I can't help it. I think they should've gotten longer than two years—if it were up to me they'd be in there for the rest of their lives."

"Crabbe and Goyle may only be in prison for two years, but this kind of crime will follow them for the rest of their lives. They'll never be able to get jobs at any prestigious institution, like the Ministry. It obviously entails expulsion from Hogwarts too, so without any certificate of magical education, it's going to be a tough road for them, indeed."

"As it should be. But … ugh, that Malfoy bloke," he says darkly. "If I could get just two minutes alone with him …"

"I know it doesn't feel fair … but there was nothing he could reasonably be charged with, since he didn't technically _do_ anything."

" _Exactly_ , the bloody coward—you saw that little act he put on, about not wanting to shame Mummy and Daddy, about being scared what his big bad friends would do if he told on them!" He clenches his fists. "It isn't right that he gets off scot-free for being too much of an arse to do the right thing. I swear, _just_ two minutes alone with that blonde ferret …"

"Shhh … let's not think about that now," I coo, running my hand along the side of his freckled cheek. "You know, I have to be back at Hogwarts by tomorrow evening …" I hover my lips near the side of his mouth, not quite kissing him, but effectively inhaling his lovely scent. "And I was hoping you'd give me something to remember you by until I can see you again."

"I'll see what I can do ... Gods, I love you so much," he breathes huskily. He gently pushes me down on his bed and covers me completely with his long body, and I wrap my arms around his waist, loving the feeling of his weight pressing into me; crushing me; making me his. "I love you _so_ bloody much, Hermione. My brave Gryffindor princess—" He kisses my nose. "—my brave little lioness."

I moan loudly as his lips find the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, kissing it sloppily before venturing to my collarbone, and I hurriedly undo the first two buttons of my blouse to allow him better access. My heart pounds heavily as desire courses through my body in violent, shuddering waves, and I sigh in ecstasy as the soft, freshly-shaven skin of Ron's face continues to caress me, his lips marking me with a warm, wet trail. He even gives the skin of my neck a very gentle experimental nick with his teeth, to which I jump and squeal beneath him, grinning like a randy idiot.

"Hermione," he says a moment later, his tone heavy, "are you okay?"

"To say I'm okay would be a bit of an understatement, darling," I groan, closing my eyes.

"No, I mean …. are you _okay?_ " Fluttering my eyes open, I stare back at him, noticing the concern that has suddenly clouded his piercing blue gaze. "I mean," he tries again, flushing, "an hour ago you were reliving one of the worst memories of your life, and now you seem really … _happy_."

"Ronald … love," I begin, not caring how sappy I sound as I stroke his face. "I refuse to spare any more tears or precious moments of my life on either Vincent Crabbe or Gregory Goyle—or Draco Malfoy, for that matter. I seem happy because I _am_ —because after all this time I finally have closure with what they did to me." My eyes start to well with bittersweet tears. "And you know … even though I could never, _ever_ feel any sense of gratefulness toward any of them … in a way I'm only just now realizing how all of this has only made me trust you even more. _You_ were the first person I told, Ron. _You_ were the one who broke my silence."

He shrugs bashfully. "Well, I sort of forced it out of you."

"No, you didn't," I respond, shaking my head. "If I really wanted to I would've lied—I would've made _something_ up, said that I did it to myself or that it was a stranger. But with you, I … I couldn't. I couldn't lie anymore. I didn't _want_ to lie anymore." I offer him a dewy-eyed smile, which he returns as he kisses me again.

"Will it be hard going back to school?" he asks.

"I don't think so. I think it'll be much easier, actually." I smack my lips as I think the matter over. "Draco was underage at the time of the incident, so the Ministry is technically supposed to keep the case hushed from the general public and the media, but you can always count on gossip and speculation. I don't care, though. Why should I when I can devote my energy to more important things?" I beam at him. "Like you." He doesn't say anything and only stares at me while smiling. "What is it?" I eventually ask.

"Nothing. You're just so beautiful, love. You're bloody glowing. Are you sure you're not part-Veela? I'm serious—every inch of you is _so_ beautiful."

I roll my eyes. "Well … not _every_ inch," I remember sadly, my eyes wandering to my covered arm.

"No," Ron says softly. He then rolls up my sleeve and kisses the slur delicately. " _Every_ inch of you is beautiful, Hermione. Even this. It's like … it's like a badge of courage. I told you—you're the bravest person I know."

" _Ron_ ," I whimper, shifting beneath him. He continues running his lips along every letter of my scar, setting my skin on fire. "I love you so much, darling. I've always loved you."

"I love you too, Hermione. I don't feel I can ever say it enough."

I brush his ginger fringe from his forehead, granting me a better view of his lustful stare. "Then _show_ me."

And he does, pressing his lips to mine once more.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter XXV**

By the time the Easter holiday arrives, Draco goes home to Mummy and Daddy with a plump, purple, freshly bruised eye—but not in the manner I had been afraid of, and even more so, not rewarded to him by who I expected. (Allow me to explain.)

Admittedly, I had been rather suspicious of Harry, Ginny, and Ron in the weeks following the trial. With Crabbe and Goyle gone, and various whispers in the corridors of Hogwarts speculating the nature of their disappearance, Draco remained as secluded as possible, and the fear that the trial had induced in him was present on his features: he looked especially pale, unsmiling and reserved, and barely spoke in class. Of course, I couldn't really blame him—I would be scared too if I knew that there were at least a small handful of people, most of them fellow schoolmates, who wanted nothing more than to beat my arse to a pulp. What was most interesting, however, about the appearance of post-trial Draco Malfoy, was the curious absence of his Head Boy badge from the front of his robes.

I had been firm with Harry and Ginny not to pursue any form of confrontation with him. The trial was over, the main perpetrators of my assault had gotten what they deserved, and inflicting any sort of harm to Draco Malfoy would not help anyone. I was less concerned about Ron, seeing as he only had a limited opportunity to access him during the Hogsmeade weekends, but that also didn't stop me from sternly warning him in my letters that he, his sister, and Harry had better not be planning anything. He replied innocently, and our designated weekends together were spent in the privacy of Our Place, where our snogging sessions resumed as passionately heated as ever. It felt even better knowing that I no longer had anything to hide from him.

However, in spite of the relatively peaceful demeanor I had adopted in the aftermath of the trial, I couldn't help but be angry with the pale, blonde Slytherin, and my hands curled into twitching fists whenever I passed him in the halls or saw him in the Great Hall or made even the briefest of eye contact with him in class. Should I have felt hypocritical, telling my friends not to carry out their own form of justice when I occasionally fantasized about doing the exact same thing? _I_ was the one who was most directly affected by him, after all, but still, I was no brute—not someone to purposefully plan to hurt another human being … no matter how much they deserved it …

During the week preceding the Easter holiday I was invited to return to the Burrow with Ginny. My parents were tending to my phlegmatic but decidedly aging paternal grandparents, and even though I offered to go with them they insisted I spend my time off having fun with my friends instead. ("But not _too_ much fun," my mother had reminded me with a knowing tone.) On the eve before our departure on the Hogwarts Express, as the rest of the school proceeded with the usual goodbyes as some students packed their trunks and others planned to remain at the castle, I had taken to my usual patrol route, humming the theme song to _Beauty and the Beast_ as I stepped confidently through the otherwise appropriately empty corridors. As I was about to pass the staircase leading to the kitchens, however, I was displeased to come face-to-face with the emerging figure of Draco Malfoy, who only looked at me with frightened grey eyes before turning on his heel in the other direction.

"Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy," I had begun in a delightfully patronizing tone, approaching him from behind. "I do believe you're out past curfew. Just because the holiday starts tomorrow doesn't mean you're allowed to blatantly disregard the rules."

He turned back to me, fidgeting in obvious discomfort. "And who are you to tell me about curfew, Granger? I'm Head Boy, I can be out all night if I want to."

"Funny you mention that, because I was _just_ wondering why I haven't seen you wearing your badge for the last couple of months. You were absent from our last meeting with the prefects too. That's rather unprofessional of you, don't you think?"

Biting his lower lip, his eyes darted from me to the walls. "Well—that—that doesn't matter, anyway. Besides, I've got a note from Dumbledore," he said, and swiftly produced a folded piece of parchment from his robe, "Says I'm allowed to be out late. For _your_ information, Mudblood, I was helping the elves in the kitchens. It's part of my punish—" he stopped himself suddenly, his mouth hanging open, and stuffed the note back in his pocket. "It's no business of yours either way, Granger. Haven't you given me enough trouble this year? Just leave me alone and maybe I won't tell my father that you've been harassing me." He attempted one of his signature haughty sneers in a weak aim to scare me, but the resulting chuckle came out shakily, fear ever-present in his eyes.

"Malfoy—wait!" I said before he had the chance to turn away again. "Look, I only wanted to say … what happened wasn't your fault. You had no idea Crabbe and Goyle were going to do what they did to me. And …" I licked my lips, "… and I hope we can all move on from this incident maturely, like the young adults that we are. I won't hold this against you. In fact, I—I _forgive_ you."

Slowly, I raised my right hand, my thumb standing erect and my fingers aimed sharply at him in the apparent promise of a truce. Draco had only stared cautiously down at my offering before meeting my hard gaze.

"You—you can't be serious, can you?" he asked.

" _Nope._ " And in the matter of a second, I had crunched the very same hand into a tight fist and successfully _thwacked_ him across the side of the face. Draco staggered back against the nearest wall as he cried out in pain, cradling his sore cheek.

"Bloody M-M-Mudblood," he choked, regaining his composure just enough to run away, and the sound of his expensive, hard-soled shoes clacking furiously against the floor as he retreated was like music to my ears.

Naturally, Ron, Harry, and Ginny are ecstatic at hearing what I've done, so much so that upon my arrival at the Burrow Ron goes about the house chanting "my girlfriend punched Draco Malfoy in the face!" several times before the twins threaten to hex him if he doesn't shut up.

"Honestly, Ronald," I say once I've got him alone in his room. "What I did is nothing to be proud of!"

"Yes, it is," he insists, chuckling as we take a seat on his bed. "C'mon. You _know_ it felt good. If it hadn't you wouldn't have told us about it."

"Yeah, well … a _bit_ ," I confess reluctantly, shrugging. "I simply found the opportunity to provide the justice that the Ministry couldn't deliver. But it's not like I planned it or anything!" I add, eyeing him suspiciously.

Sighing, Ron beams at me with his handsomely lopsided grin. "All right, love—I'll admit that the last few times I wrote to Harry and Ginny we _were_ talking about, _potentially_ , I dunno, seeing where he goes during the Hogsmeade trips and giving him a little talking to …" I raise my brow as he continues through an innocent laugh. "It's not like we were going to kill him or anything! We were just— _you know_ —gonna make sure what happened never happens again. But it looks like you've already taken care of that, haven't you? You brilliant girl!" Taking me in his arms, he nuzzles my cheek affectionately. " _My_ brilliant girl."

"Well … I suppose so," I say, losing myself in his loving caress.

"And you aren't afraid he'll have Daddy do something about it?"

"Not at all. He said so himself that I've given him enough trouble this year," I reply confidently, smirking. "I told you too, he didn't put up any fight. He just ran away. He cursed at me, sure, but he didn't try to defend himself. Almost ... almost like he _knew_ he deserved it. Although I won't expect any form of decent admission from Draco Malfoy."

We're silent for a moment after this comment, and Ron continues to kiss the side of my face, eventually moving up to my ear, where he gingerly takes my lobe in his mouth for a tender nip. "Oh, Ron—oh!" I gasp suddenly.

"What is it?" he asks, pulling back and regarding me with concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"I just remembered, Ron—in the midst of all this, I never got to give you your Valentine's Day gift! I totally forgot about it!"

He chortles briefly in relief. "You scared me there for a second, love."

"Seriously! It was a box of truffles from Honeydukes—the really nice kind too. I know they put preserving charms on their items so they last a long time; they should still be fresh! Oh, I know they're still in my other coat. I left it at home," I remember. "Want to come get it with me?"

"All right" he replies eagerly. "But first—" Gently removing me from his embrace, Ron walks over to his dresser and opens the top drawer (which I've come to regard as his go-to hiding place), and, after shuffling in it for a moment, pulls out a simply wrapped, thick and rectangular box. "I wouldn't be much of a boyfriend if I didn't also go against our agreement not to get gifts for each other." Smiling, he holds it out to me. "I hadn't _completely_ forgotten about it, mind you, but—yeah, I reckon I was waiting for everything to cool down too."

"Oh, Ron, you sweetheart," I say, taking it from him. "What it it?"

"Why don't you open it, silly?"

"Okay."

He watches with a wide grin as I carefully tear away the wrapping, gasping with delight upon realizing that I've uncovered my own videocassette copy of _Beauty and the Beast_.

"Do you like it?" he asks nervously. "I mean, I got it because of that nice double date we had that one time—"

"This is so thoughtful of you, Ron!" I stand up from his bed to plant a firm kiss on his lips. "I love it. Thank you."

"It's nothing, really," he replies bashfully. "But you're welcome, love. It's good to see you this happy again." He smirks, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. "Shall we head to your house then?"

As I nod in confirmation, I'm pleasantly reminded of the fact that, should we indeed go to my house, we'd be completely alone, with no chance of being disturbed. In a household as busy as the Burrow, we'd always been careful not to let things get _too_ heated in case either of us had to make a swift getaway, lest we face the embarrassment of being walked in on by someone, especially the Weasley matriarch. Even in the relative solitude of Our Place we still maintained a degree of carefulness (no matter how slight), because we were still, technically, trespassers—but the idea of being totally alone with Ron in the private comfort of my own home, with my parents undeniably gone many miles away, entices me.

I continue to nod, squeezing his arm with my free hand. "Yes," I breathe into his face. "Let's go."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter XXVI**

The fact of my parents' absence apparently doesn't fully dawn on Ron until after we've entered my home, and he stands by the door awkwardly holding his hands behind his back as I flip on the lights to the living area and kitchen. It's the early evening, and we had only just escaped Mrs. Weasley's insistence that we stay for dinner, seeing that Ginny was more than willing to distract her mother from our sudden disappearance.

"Your parents aren't home," he observes.

"I told you that already," I say with a roll of my eyes, grabbing him by his hand and leading him to the sofa. "What's wrong? It's not like this is our first time being alone together."

"Yeah, but this is our first time being alone in your house." He runs his palms nervously along his jeans. "I dunno if they'd approve. Didn't they ever tell you not to have a boy over when they're not around?"

"Honestly, Ronald, we're both young adults now, aren't we?" As he remains looking unconvinced, I scoot closer to him and run my index finger carefully along his chin. He must have neglected shaving for the past few days, for there is already a distinct prickle of auburn fuzz tickling me—and even though I'm used to having Ron smooth-skinned, I find that I rather like it—it only serves to remind me what a man he's become. "Are you saying you'd rather leave?"

" _No_ ," he says quickly, and blushes. "I just … you know, don't want your parents to go spare if they find out."

"There's nothing to find out. I'm only giving you your truffles, aren't I?" I ask playfully, kissing his cheek and standing up from the sofa. "I'll be right back."

Leaving Ron there, wide-eyed, I trot upstairs to my bedroom, the end of my plaited hair bobbing behind me, and, upon searching through my conservative wardrobe, quickly retrieve the present from my jacket pocket and bring it downstairs to him. The golden bow is slightly smashed from being inadequately stored for so long, but he smiles brightly and thanks me as he unwraps the chocolate candies. He takes one carefully between his forefinger and thumb and places it gently to my lips. Giggling, I take the entire sweet in my mouth and chew slowly, flushing as I notice the little involuntary jump Ron gives as my lips make the slightest contact with the tip of his long and bony digit.

"It's divine," I coo, smacking. "But it's _your_ present, Ron. You eat some."

To my surprise, he shakes his head in refusal and sets the truffles on the little table before the sofa. "Later, perhaps."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He says it so softly, and leans forward to take my lips in a short but searing kiss, sharing the sharp taste of the chocolate. He moves a hand up to my face with the intention of deepening our union, but I pull back, breathless.

"Let's … let's go up to my room, shall we?"

"Er … if you want to," he replies slowly. "But, Hermione, I didn't agree to come with you because I thought we were gonna—you know— _do_ anything."

"I know you didn't, Ron." (He exhales audibly; nervously.) "Just relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

Upon entering my room, I turn on my bedside lamp and sit him down on my periwinkle duvet. Out of habit, I close the door behind us, even though I'm very much aware that we're the only ones in the house. I grab his hand as I join him, playing with his calloused knuckles.

"I never noticed how nice your room is," he speaks softly after a minute. "It's really you."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask with a humorous lilt, looking around at my modest but decidedly feminine décor: a few framed paintings of flowers, some stuffed animals sitting on my bookshelf, various kitschy trinkets on my white wooden writing desk, given to me by my grandparents (my particular favorite was a small, porcelain white cat with exaggeratedly large eyes), and purple, floral themed gossamer curtains covering the only window.

"Yes," he replies, chuckling.

"I'd hope so." Sighing, I bring my hand up to his face and brush his red fringe, smiling at the exquisitely silken texture of his ginger locks whilst eyeing him intently.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Nothing. Am I not allowed to simply look at the man I love, Ronald?"

"There's not much to look at, love."

"Oh, rubbish." I take him gently by the shoulders, squeezing him, before moving up and down those deliciously muscled arms with the same firm pressure. "You're so gorgeous, Ron. I've always thought you were cute, but … now …" I slide a finger beneath the long sleeve of his Chudley Cannons shirt, and move my other hand to where the bright orange fabric rests on his lower abdomen, my teeth kneading wantonly on my lower lip. " _So_ gorgeous … it makes me want to ... oh, Ron, may I?" I beg.

I tug lightly on his shirt, and Ron, looking incredulous, only nods. My heart pounding, I gently pull up the ghastly jersey—granting my eyes access to more and more of his beautifully white, freckle-splattered flesh with every inch—and inhale sharply when he raises his arms and finishes the task for me, pulling his shirt over his head. I notice a flash of light ginger hair in the perfumed hollows of his underarms, and the smell he is emitting—woodsy and sweet and divine all at once—is beyond intoxicating; it's positively maddening, in fact. I take the liberty of removing the shirt from his grasp and throwing it on the floor as I close the small gap between us, snogging him with renewed passion as my hands greedily explore his naked torso, devoting every muscle, line, and curve to memory.

"Hermione … Hermione … Hermione …" He breathes my name in a desperate, aching voice, taking my restrained hair in his hand and stroking the delicate plait. "Can I? … May I?"

I'm tempted to laugh at the way he corrects himself, as if he honestly thinks I will openly disapprove of his grammar at a time like this, but all I can manage is a soft sigh as he removes the elastic at the end of my hair, rolling it onto his wrist.

"You—you shouldn't do that, Ron," I say breathlessly, his lips still on my face. "It could cut off circulation to your—"

"—don't care." He fingers my plait apart in a matter of seconds, allowing my bushy locks to fall on my shoulders in soft waves. He runs his hand through my liberated mane several times—his fingers only snagging once—muttering "beautiful" under his breath.

I attack his neck with kisses, moving slowly to his shoulder in a sloppy trail, and place a kiss on a freckle I find there. "God, Ron." Pulling back, I put a hand to the top button of my loose-fitting salmon-hued blouse, gazing into his penetrating, lustful eyes for approval.

"Hermione, I—you don't have to—"

" _Shhhhhhh_ ," I say softly, bringing his hands to my heart. "It's okay. I trust you."

"Can … May I do it? Let me."

I shudder at the heaviness of his voice. "Please."

Ron presses his lips to the top of my head before positioning his face at the crook of my neck, where the thinnest layer of anxious perspiration has already dampened the ends of my hair. All the while still running his mouth along my flushed skin, his shaking hands gradually trail down my blouse, leaving the restraints unbuttoned in his wake. Closing my eyes, I go limp against his shoulder as he delicately pushes the lacy material from my body and down my arms. It pools in a small pink puddle behind me, and with a weak jerk of my hand I push it off the bed, where it joins Ron's discarded shirt; I'm left in my simple camisole: white, satin, with a little bow sewn to the thin fabric near the start of my cleavage.

He ravages my back with his warm, hungry touch, leaving scorching fingerprints with every passionate stroke, and soft, mewling "uhs" and "oohs" escape my parted lips every other second. I'm suddenly much too nervous to look at him—I'm more exposed before him than I've ever been before, although the alien feeling is not unwelcome. I breathe slowly against his bare shoulder, attempting to calm myself.

"You seem tired, love. I reckon you ought to get some sleep, yeah?"

"No … I'm not tired at all," I protest, although a yawn betrays me as it underlies my voice. "It's … barely even seven …"

"True, but you've had a long day, haven't you? Getting back from Hogwarts and all."

"But … I don't _want_ to sleep," I whine, clutching desperately to the defined meat of his back.

"Now it's my turn to tell you to shush." Effortlessly, Ron hooks his arm beneath my knees, the other cradling my head, and carries me to the head of the mattress, where he sets me down with the delicacy of an antique collector putting away a priceless porcelain doll. My eyes are only half-open, and I feel the bed shift slightly as he joins me by my side. "Take a nap, love. I'll be here when you wake up."

"I'm not going to sleep, Ronald Weasley. I'm not even remotely tired."

"Stubborn little girl, you are."

"Always."

"It's going to get you in trouble one day, it is."

"I'll take my chances."

"Mmm."

" _Ron_ ," I coo, opening my eyes all the way, so that I may fully take in his lovely pale skin, practically glowing in the low light. I affectionately stroke his prickly jawline, moaning when he nips me playfully. "I … I wish I could do everything with you."

"You can, Hermione."

"I know, but it seems so far away, doesn't it?"

"Who says we have to wait?"

"Really now?" I ask, pressing my lips against his collarbone. "Would you marry me right now? Tonight, even?"

"I've been ready to marry you since we were thirteen, love. You of all people should know that."

"And would you give me lots and lots of babies?"

"As many as you want."

I chortle deeply at his promise. "This is mad, Ron. To think—to think if Ginny hadn't decided to approach me that one night in the common room to ask for help with her homework, if I hadn't become her friend—there's a good chance we wouldn't be here right now."

"I still remember the first time she wrote home about you," he muses. "She said you were 'a nice girl' and that you'd been helping her with her homework, and that you were a Muggle-born—which is where I suppose my 'intrigue' with you first began," he remarks with a chuckle, calling to memory that first awkward talk we shared by the pond at the Burrow nearly five years earlier. "And you know I was the only one who pronounced your name right on the first try?"

"Really?"

"Sure was," he replies proudly. "When Mum and Dad read the letter they kept on wanting to say _'Her-my-one'_ or _'Hermy-own'_. But when I read it, I was sure it was _Hermione_. And I was right, wasn't I?" He pecks my forehead.

"Yes, you were. But don't blame your parents. Hermione isn't a common name—I'm sure it was the first time they encountered it."

"True. At least they picked up on it fast enough, unlike Vicky."

I pay no mind to his last comment—my former romantic interest is one of the last people I want to think about right now. Shifting closer to Ron on my bed, I meet his hypnotizing stare and lick my lips. " _Ron_ ," I breathe, aching. "You know, there's not a person on earth I'd want to be with right now more than you."

"The feeling is mutual, love."

"And … and I don't _want_ to go to sleep right now."

"If you say so. What would you rather do then?"

I don't say anything.

Taking his arms in my grasp, I steer Ron on top of me, until he's hovering a mere inch from my face. I bring him in for a careful, slow kiss—urging myself not to attack him the way every minute particle of my being is begging me to—and as my lips continue to move gently against him, I reach down and stroke the inside of his denim-clad thigh, causing him to shiver violently.

"Hermione, I—"

"Love me, Ron. I want you to love me."

"But … but I _do_ love you."

I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean, you insensitive prat."

"So I'm back to that now, am I?"

Whimpering beneath him, I play with the hair at the back of his neck, my heart on the brink of explosion. " _Please_ ," I vocalize hoarsely; the cheeky simper he had been displaying fades into a serious stare. "Ron, I … I just want to be with you." I moisten my lips. "I've always wanted to be with you, Ron."

A moment or two passes before he finally nods in silent understanding—and after that there are little words exchanged between us for some time; my room is instead filled with the sound of my fervid puling as he finally crushes his body into mine.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter XXVII**

In the true style of a Muggle romantic comedy, Ginny almost instantly takes notice to the dopey, drunken smile that's plastered on my face for the entirety of the following day. Ron and I had returned to the Burrow shortly before midnight, and, after spending the remainder of the dark hours curled into his embrace beneath his Chudley Cannons blankets, I awoke as refreshed and giggly as ever—so much so that even Lavender Brown might have become annoyed at my sudden bubbliness.

At the breakfast table, Ron and I can't stop sharing these mischievous little looks. He sits across from me, inconspicuously entangling his foot with mine and running his long toes along my socked arch as the other unsuspecting Weasleys distribute toast and butter and kippers across the long wooden surface. As I sip on the hot chocolate that Mrs. Weasley had been kind enough to prepare for me, I make it a point to exaggerate the process of my tongue rolling across my lips to collect my whipped cream mustache; Ron stifles a groan, and Ginny frowns in suspicion.

"Before I get to the point," my dear friend begins matter-of-factly as we put fresh sheets on our beds shortly after that flirtatious morning meal, "I'm inclined to remind you that the subject of your romantic affections is my older brother, and as such I have absolutely zero desire to be enlightened on _any_ aspect of his anatomy, _or_ what he does with it." She grins at me as she smooths out a crease in her freshly laundered pillowcase. "But Hermione, you've been grinning like an idiot all morning."

"And?" I ask innocently.

" _And_ considering how long you two were at your house yesterday evening, I can't help but think … perhaps something _happened_."

"Yes—I gave him his late Valentine's Day gift."

"Is that all you gave him?"

" _Nothing_ happened, Ginny."

"Are you sure? I won't tell." Her eyes dart to the front of her room to make sure that the door is closed before coming over to me, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Come on, Hermione."

"I'm telling you, Ginny—we didn't do what you're thinking. No …" Grazing my teeth along my bottom lip, I lower myself onto my freshly made bed and beckon Ginny to sit next to me. She does, and I lean against her shoulder, sighing. "No … it was so much better than anything like that. We were both somewhat … undressed," (Ginny raises her brow.) "… but we weren't starkers, no. And we just sort of …" I grasp at the air for the right words, " … laid there. Together. Not saying anything for a long time. But we didn't need to—it was like we could read each other's minds. He stroked by hair … and we just rested there, holding each other, pressed into one another so comfortingly. It was like something out of those Muggle romances that my mother reads. It was so … _intimate_."

Ginny smiles at my dewiness of my flushed expression, although a hint of playful skepticism still plays with her pretty features. "But Hermione, you and Ron have done that lots of times, haven't you? What makes this time any different?"

I blink several times in sudden incredulity. "Ginny, how do you know about—?"

" _Hermione_ ," she interrupts, smirking. "Hermione Jean Granger. All of the times you've spent the night at this house, you honestly think I've never noticed you sneaking off in the middle of the night to spend it with him? Or tip-toeing your way back in here in the morning? Please—thanks to you, I've _mastered_ the art of pretending to be asleep. But I figured, you know, that there was no point in ruining the little fun you were having by letting you know you weren't as sneaky as you thought."

"But—but how did you know I was going to Ron's room?"

"Where else would you be going? I knew you weren't spending all of those hours in the loo. Not getting a midnight snack either, seeing how skinny you are," she adds, poking my flat stomach.

"Oh my goodness." I avert her gaze, blushing furiously in embarrassment. "I thought we were being so careful."

"It's not your fault. I suppose after being your friend for so long some of your attentiveness rubbed off on me. Better me than my mother, right?"

"Right," I sigh.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Your question? Oh, yes." Grinning weakly, I meet my friend's bright brown eyes as she looks back at me with curiosity. "Well … I suppose at least part of it had to do with how emotional things have been in light of everything that's happened these past few months. But also the fact that we've never been in my house alone like that … I dunno what it is exactly, but I just felt closer to him then than any other time we'd been alone. And the way his arms felt when he wrapped them around me—everything was so warm and tight and secure. Like a cocoon." I inhale deeply, feeling a shiver run down my spine as I relive the recent memory of my night with Ron. "And when he started kissing me I practically melted; his lips are so soft and—"

" _Oh_ -kay," Ginny intervenes, standing up from the bed. "As much as I'd love to hear more details about your 'intimate' night with Ron, I think we should go join the others. I invited Harry over and I expect he'll be Flooing soon."

Hours later, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and the twins come back into the house from one of their usual recreational Quidditch games. I'm sitting on the armchair in the living area reviewing my Charms textbook, and look up to see Ginny and George aiding Fred, who is holding a handkerchief up to a profusely bleeding nose.

"What happened?" I ask, concern layering my tone. I stand up and walk over to address the situation.

"I'm afraid our dear little sister was sore about losing," Fred explains, grinning even through his injury. "Although I didn't expect she'd have the nerve to hex my broomstick so it'd smack me in the face."

"I _told_ you, you prat," Ginny says, guiding her brother to a seat at the dining table. "I didn't do it. Your arrogant arse must have been so high on yourself that you probably did it yourself. Or George here—he's being rather quiet."

"Oi!" the uninjured twin protests. "I'd never do that to my own flesh and blood—I would've come up with something better." He takes out his wand. "Now hold still, Fred, while I fix this."

While Fred is tended to, Harry and Ginny sneak off upstairs, leaving Ron and I to embrace one another on the sofa. He kisses my cheek and asks what I'm reading today.

"Just reviewing some things for Charms."

"You know, the whole point of a holiday is that you _don't_ do things like that."

"But final exams will be here before we even realize it! And then graduation." I kiss him once on the lips, firmly. "And then our big dance together, right?"

"Right," he replies with his adorably lopsided smile. "Gods, I'm so excited about that—showing you off to my friends. Kissing you in front of everyone."

"We'll be doing no such thing," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Not even one?" he asks. "I reckon it's only practical, innit? So none of the randy tossers at my school think that we're just going as friends."

"Well, in that case, maybe _one_." Taking the cue, Ron places a large, calloused hand gently beneath my chin, guiding me into a searing kiss, fireworks erupting between our mouths. It's amazing to me, considering all the times I've kissed him this past year, how the mere act still sends my heart racing, and ignites every cell in my body in a passionate flame. He's brilliant, and he doesn't seem to have the slightest idea of it. I'm left pleasantly breathless by the time he pulls back, looking at me with those adoring blue eyes. "Yes, perhaps one is appropriate."

He frowns.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing … I was just thinking," he sighs, "well, it's all coming to an end now, huh? I mean, in the next few months we'll be done with school. We'll be 'adults' and all that. I dunno—it seems like just the other day we were thirteen and you were scolding me for not wanting to think about the future."

"I wasn't scolding you."

"And now it's like—blimey, I should've listened to you," he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "I do have some idea in mind about what I'm going to do. There are plenty of community colleges I could get to one way or another. I reckon I've got to get good at something if I'm going to make it in the Muggle world."

"Who says it has to be the Muggle world? There are numerous career paths you could pursue in the wizarding world that don't require magic use." I scoot closer to him, squeezing his hand. "But really, Ron. I've told you this before—you're _brilliant_ at Quidditch. If you just tried out—"

"That'll never happen, Hermione," he snaps. "Squibs have never been allowed on professional teams … Sorry," he adds, noticing my hurt expression. "I just don't like getting my hopes up for things like that."

"I understand," I sigh.

"But knowing you, I suppose it's straight to the Ministry after Hogwarts, yeah? Gonna change the world?" The cheeriness is back in his tone, and I beam at him.

"Hopefully."

"You'll be brilliant at it, whatever you decide," he says confidently, pecking my cheek again. "And rest assured, love, I'm going to support you every step of the—" He stops dead in the middle of his sentence, his eyes going wide as he stares at something in front of him.

"Ron?"

Turning in my seat, I follow the path of his gaze and immediately detect the source of his sudden silence: from the top of the fireplace, dangling carefully a few feet above the bits of wood and flameless ashes of the hearth, is a particularly large, black spider, beginning what looks like the start of an intricate web.

"Don't worry, I'll catch it and put it outside," I say, standing up.

"I don't think so," he replies firmly, tugging on my wrist. "What if it bites you and you get sick?"

I roll my eyes. "That's highly unlikely, Ronald. Look, it'll take two seconds—I won't even have to touch it."

Pulling free from him, I grab my wand from the pocket of my jeans with the intention of performing a simple levitation charm on the little harmless creature. I step forward and extend my arm when—

"Hermione, don't!"

Suddenly, the fireplace roars to life in a burst of lively golden flames. (The spider, sensing danger, immediately retreats back up its web and scurries off behind the mantelshelf.) Jumping back a foot (and nearly bumping into the coffee table in the process) I stare disbelievingly at the impossibly conjured flames for several minutes. They are cackling as cheerfully as it would at Christmastime, and I look around the living area to ensure that Ron and I are indeed the only ones in this part of the house.

"Ronald, your parents haven't tampered with the fireplace at all recently, have they? Or anyone else?"

"N-No," he stutters, looking even more incredulous than I am. "Not that I know of."

Frowning, I reach out tentatively toward the flames: they emanate an exquisite, genuine warmth, so I rule out the possibility of the twins playing some sort of joke using faux-fire. And any form of an Automatic Flaming Charm would simply be dangerously careless of the Weasleys, considering that they keep their Floo Network open all hours of the day—no, that couldn't be it. And _I_ certainly didn't do it; I hadn't displayed any instance of accidental magic since I had received my Hogwarts letter when I was eleven …

Turning back to Ron, I eye him skeptically, and the inconceivable flames continue to warm the room.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter XXVIII**

Excerpt from _Not Your Average Dragon Pox: A Brief Guide to Rare Magical Maladies and Conditions_ (1964) by Miriam Strout, page 177:

 _ **Extreme Latent Magic Disorder**_

 _Characterized by a significant delay in the onset of magical abilities, Extreme Latent Magic Disorder (or ELM-D) is estimated to only occur in one in every three-thousand magical births worldwide. Due to its rarity and the frequency of undiagnosed cases, not much is known for sure about this condition, other than its obvious symptoms. Medical opinions on the possible cause have been subject to much debate, as perfectly healthy mothers with no history of magical delay in their families have given birth to children with ELM-D. Most people with this condition are mistakenly thought to be Squibs, only to be surprised later in life when magical abilities manifest themselves, often in response to an emotionally jarring event (similar to the way an underage witch or wizard may accidentally leak magic)—however, this is not exclusively the case, for many people with this condition also find that their magic shows itself randomly without any obvious emotional trigger. At the moment of magical onset, the disorder is considered "cured", although the emotional and psychological effects can be everlasting._

 _The first documented case of ELM-D occurred in 179l, when a forty-nine-year-old American 'Squib' one day discovered that, as he struggled to walk across the room to retrieve a potion that a Healer had given him to soothe a case of the common cold, he could in fact summon the flask from across the room and into his hands. The oldest person to be diagnosed with ELM-D to date is an one-hundred-year-old German witch, who, in 1959, accidentally inflated her poorly behaved great-grandson after he ate all of the cookies she had baked without permission. (The boy was promptly deflated and survived.) There has yet to be a documented case of ELM-D occurring in a Muggle-born witch or wizard._

 _ELM-D is distinguishable from the less rare (but still very uncommon) Delayed Magic Disorder, or DMD (see page 169), in that a witch or wizard must be at least sixteen years of age to be diagnosed with the former (hence the 'extreme' in the title), whereas a person with DMD displays magical ability between the ages of twelve and fifteen. (Considering that the average age for a child to have had already displayed signs of magic is seven, according to a 1960 report by the Ministry of Divine Health, magical onset not occurring until the age of twelve to fifteen is still considered very much delayed.)_

 _The prognosis for those with Extreme Latent Magic Disorder is generally positive, as it has not been noted to display any other negative symptoms, and passing on the condition to immediate offspring is unlikely. Assessing ELM-D is generally a matter of a witch or wizard's quality of life, as developing magical abilities at such a late start severely impacts career options and their perception in wizarding society, especially (as previously mentioned) considering that most of the people with this condition are incorrectly labeled as Squibs._

 _Despite the obvious disadvantage that this rare condition presents, witches and wizards with Extreme Latent Magic Disorder often go on to live fulfilling lives. Many choose to pursue private methods of magical education, while a smaller percentage choose not to refine their newly found magical abilities and live the rest of their lives as seemingly non-magical individuals, simply because it is what they are accustomed to._

 _Notable people with Extreme Latent Magic Disorder include composer and husband of Celestina Warbeck, Irving Warble, who first displayed magical abilities at age seventeen, and the late Burdock Muldoon, former Chief of the Wizards' Council, who did not perform his first successful spell until his sixteenth birthday._

* * *

When I ask Ron if I can have a private word with him in his room, he brushes away the crumb residue of his bacon sandwich from the corners of his mouth and eyes me with curiosity. He shakes that lovely ginger fringe from his eyes as he looks up at me, and I'm struck with tenderness at how utterly adorable he is, even more so when I remember that, after the strange occurrences of yesterday afternoon, I had barely seen him.

It had taken the slightest degree of deception in order to remove myself from the Burrow. When I told Ron I was simply going out to buy a few personal toiletries, he had been only too willing to accompany me on the dull shopping trip, but I had insisted he stay behind with the others for the sake of not boring him to death. With a small pang of guilt at having lied straight to his face, I had promptly Disapparated straight to Diagon Alley to begin my search for answers—and answers I certainly found.

Now that he's staring at me in that loving way he always does, I feel the excitement of my discovery bubbling beneath my skin.

"Am I in trouble?" he inquires with a tentative smile, noticing the urgency in which I guide him upstairs.

"Not in the slightest, Ron."

And after I close the door of his room behind us, I present my findings to him, which exist in the form of a large, dark, leather-bound volume, aged with scratches on the cover and spine, as it had been when I fished it out of a lonely corner of Flourish and Blotts; its previous home was a small section reserved specifically for books pertaining to magical medicine, a part of the huge store that was scarcely visited by anyone who wasn't pursuing a career as a Healer.

My darling is skeptical. I close _Not Your Average Dragon Pox_ and press it against my chest, grinning eagerly, but my boyfriend only looks at me with doubt glinting in those amazing blue eyes.

"Hermione …" he begins in a low voice. He runs his tongue along his lower lip. "You … you can't _really_ think—"

"Why wouldn't I?" I interrupt, exhilaration dripping from my every word. "Ron, it explains _everything!_ Everything that's been happening around here lately—it was you! _You_ were leaking your latent magic! You started the fire the other day, because you were scared of me being hurt by the spider! And—and you made Fred's broom hit him in the face—why did you do that, by the way? Oh, and—and—and—" I can hardly form a coherent statement; I'm so overwhelmed, "—and Harry and Ginny! Remember when we were telling them what happened to me—they tried to suggest we go to Dumbledore first, and—and their butterbeers spilled all over them! Do you remember that? Oh Ron, you were so passionate and so determined to protect me—you must have done that too!"

When he only looks at me with more hesitation, I add, with force: "Damn it, Ronald. I spent _hours_ in Diagon Alley yesterday after your little explosion to hunt down this book, and I am not going to let you dismiss this!"

"But," he says softly, his eyes falling to his lap, "Hermione … if it's true, if _this_ is true … then what am I to do?" He shifts on the bed, a helpless sigh escaping his lips. "What—am I supposed to go to Hogwarts? Sit in a classroom with a bunch of eleven-year-olds? Graduate when I'm halfway through my twenties?"

"There are other options, Ron. I could teach you! And Harry and Ginny and everyone else—"

"No." Crestfallen, he looks back up at me and shakes his head. "No, love. It's barmy. I can't have that. I can't have bloody extremely delayed magic disease or whatever."

"How can you be sure? Ronald, it says _right_ here—"

"I don't want to read it again."

"And why not?"

"Because!" he exclaims, "Hermione, I've reached that point in my life where I'm really coming to peace with the fact that I can't do magic. _You're_ one of the people who got me there, and so I can't believe that now you're trying to tell me otherwise."

"Ronald, surely you must fathom the implications of this!" I object, shaking the book near his face. "If I'm right about this—which I'm sure I am—this could change your life!"

"I dunno if I want my life changed that much. I'd almost rather be the filthy Squib than the freak with the illness."

"It's not an _illness_ , Ron. It's a condition."

He rolls his eyes.

"Well, I don't know why _you're_ so reluctant to follow through with this," I huff, standing up from his bed, "but _I'm_ going straight downstairs to tell your parents about what I've found. They need to know—"

"Wait," he objects, and I stare back at him. "Whatever you're on about, I don't want to tell anyone about it just yet."

On any other day I would have taken offense to the manner in which he referred to my discovery, but I'm too damn excited to pay him any mind in that regard, and I instead anchor the book beneath my arm and reach out to take both of his hands, squeezing them firmly.

"Then come with me," I say. "Come with me to St. Mungo's right now. I'm sure a Healer can confirm what I have to say. Right now, Ron. We can't just sit on this. Please."

Sighing in reluctance, Ron provides the release of his breath so dramatically that it rivals even my contemptuous huffs before ultimately giving in with a nod. Squealing with elation, I pounce on him to kiss his face several times, briefly wondering how surprised old Mr. Ollivander will look when I bring Ronald Weasley in to get his very first wand.

* * *

 _ **Author's note:**_ _It is with some melancholy that I announce that we are very close to the end of_ **Lola** _—in fact, it looks like this story is going to be exactly thirty-three chapters long (hooray for monodigits!). There's still some things our beloved Ron and Hermione need to clear up, but they are quickly approaching their well-deserved happy ending._

 _But since we've still got several chapters left to pursue, in the meantime, please consider checking out my new story_ **Doomed Darling** _. It's another AU Romione-centric tale (of course) and is told from Ron's perspective. I'm very passionate about the idea I have surrounding this new story and plan to put a lot of heart into it. I hope you like it, and thank you for reading._

 _Oh, and happy thirty-seventh birthday to our dearest Hermione!_


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter XXIX**

Ron stutters when the pretty, silver-haired woman at the front desk of St. Mungo's asks him what symptoms he's experiencing. He stumbles, licks his lips, and then shoots a _help me_ sort of look in my direction.

"Um …" I clear my throat, tightening my grip on _Not Your Average Dragon Pox_ , "we think he has a case of Extreme Latent Magic Disorder."

She raises her impeccably trimmed brows, her cherry-red lips parted in surprise, but quickly regains her composure. "Very well. There's a slot for him to be seen by Healer Smethwyck in thirty minutes; second floor. Mr. Weasley, you will need to fill out this questionnaire," she says, pulling out a long piece of parchment secured to a writing board. There's a dark quill attached to it with a piece of string. "The quill is self-inking. Turn in the questionnaire to the Healer's assistant when they call your name."

Finally, she equips Ron with a bracelet identifying him by name, sex, and age. He looks down at it grimly as we ascend to the second floor waiting room, which is empty except for us and a handsome middle-aged woman with an apparent case of Vanishing Sickness, as evidenced by the alarming manner in which her entire head of long dark hair disappears from her head every time she sneezes, only to return a second later.

He frowns at the questionnaire.

"These questions are stupid," he says. " _'Have you been exposed to gnome saliva in the past forty-eight hours?'; 'Do you own a Puffskein or any related species?'_ What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Ronald, these are medical professionals. I'm sure they wouldn't ask their patients this if it wasn't important."

When Ron is called into the back, the assistant—a tall and slender young woman with dark skin and stylish pink spectacles—takes his sheet, looks it over with approving nods, but then stares at me with uncertainty.

"Mr. Weasley," she says in a thick Irish accent, "St. Mungo's takes every effort to ensure the privacy of our patients. Would you not prefer that your friend stays in the waiting area for the duration of your appointment?"

"She's my girlfriend," Ron replies firmly. "And she stays."

The woman doesn't argue. Instead, she proceeds to record Ron's height and weight before we are taken down a long hall with laminated flooring and numerous potted plants until we reach a set of double doors in the very back, which the assistant promptly pushes open, revealing a room that very much reminds me of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, only larger and without as many windows. Based on my preliminary scan, there are at least two dozen beds lined up on either side of the walls, most of them apparently occupied except for two in the front where the privacy curtains are not in use.

"Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Weasley," says the assistant, motioning to the first empty bed. "Healer Smethwyck will be in to see you shortly."

Once we're left alone, Ron sits on the crisp, white covers as I pull up a nearby chair to sit before him. Smiling, I watch as he idly rocks his feet back and forth, taking in the light blue walls and the various framed pictures of flowers, sunsets, and kittens hopping around on attractive pieces of furniture.

"Nervous?" I inquire.

"A bit." He shrugs. "I just hope that once this is all over with and they tell me I don't have what you were on about—perhaps then you'll drop it."

I open my mouth to scold him, but I'm silenced by the racket of the large doors opening and closing again, and, upon turning in my seat, I'm greeted by the sight of a small man, perhaps an inch or so below my own height, with moderate wrinkles around his eyes and mouth to suggest an age around his early sixties. He's handsome, with olive-hued skin, soft aged features, hazel eyes, and a slicked back arrangement of dark blonde locks. He's clad in white robes and holds a writing board on which several pieces of parchment are secured.

"Ah," he begins with a soothing, grandfatherly voice, smiling at my boyfriend, "you must be Mr. Weasley." He extends a calloused, brown hand to Ron, who takes it in a brief shake. The man then pulls the privacy curtains forward, enclosing the three of us in a veil of off-white. "No need to worry, Mr. Weasley. The very fabric is embedded with the strongest of silencing charms. No one else in this room will be able to hear the details of your visit. Patient confidentiality is always a first and foremost here at St. Mungo's." He turns back to Ron. "Now, I'm Hippocrates Smethwyck, certified Healer. I usually work on the first floor—that would be the Creature-Induced Injuries floor, of course—in fact I'm the head of it, but I have extensive experience in all other areas of magical medicine as well. You are in good hands." He then looks in my direction, as if only just realizing my presence. "And who might you be, young lady?"

"I'm Hermione Granger."

"She's my girlfriend," Ron supplies, sounding rather proud of the fact. "She convinced me to come here today."

"And why would you need convincing, Mr. Weasley?"

" _She_ thinks I have something. I'm not so sure."

"Yes …" he says, looking down at his chart, "I see here that Charlotte—that would be our receptionist, dear Charlotte—she marked the reason for your visitation as 'Other' and then wrote 'For patient elaboration'. So, would you be so kind as to do that, Mr. Weasley?" he inquires with an air of humor. "Or rather, Miss Granger?"

"Well … yes, um." I'm slightly unnerved by the Healer's laid-back approach, and I take a moment to collect my thoughts lest I become a stuttering mess. "Yes … well. Ron is a Squib, you see, or at least that's what he and everyone in his family has thought for years now. But I think—no, I'm _convinced_ , I'm sure of it—that he's not really a Squib at all. I think he has a case of Extreme Latent Magic Disorder."

Smethwyck doesn't look slightly fazed by my assertion. "That is a _very_ rare condition, Miss Granger. I have only encountered two cases of it in all of my four decades of Healing."

"Yes, I understand, sir. But I promise you—I've looked into it, and given everything that's been happening to Ron and _around_ Ron lately—it only makes sense! Drinks have been falling over; fires have been starting spontaneously; he made his older brother's broomstick smack him in the face—"

"—I did _not_ —"

"—and everyone else who's around him when these things happen swear it's not them. It only makes sense, sir. I've read all about it here." I hold out _Not Your Average Dragon Pox_ , which Smethwyck removes from my grasp and examines with a grin.

"Strout, yes, wonderful woman," he comments. "Great colleague. I was there at the party she threw when she got this very book published. It was a great loss to the Healer community when she retired a few years ago. And this book is great: truly magnificent research, even if it is a tad outdated." He hands it back to me. "Back then we didn't have as concrete a method for testing the presence of the disorder, but now we do. And if you _insist_ this is what we're dealing with … Mr. Weasley," he says, extracting his wand from one of the pockets of his robes, and an empty vial from the other, "I will only need a small sample of your blood."

* * *

Fifteen minutes. It's only been fifteen measly minutes since Smethwyck left with Ron's blood sample stored in that little clear container, instructing us to simply "hang tight" until he returns. I _would_ be pacing, but I haven't the room to do so in the confines of the privacy curtains, which I know Ron doesn't want breached at this time—instead, I've taken to sitting silently in my little chair, contemplating the life-changing news that I just know Ron is in store for the moment the Healer returns. Ron, on the other hand, still attempting to maintain that indifferent façade toward the whole matter, remains sitting on the bed, a small bandage now covering the spot on his arm where Smethwyck had made the quick and precise incision with a simple puncturing charm.

Twenty minutes now. I've never felt like I've waited this long for anything in my life.

"Ron—I—" I say as we approach the twenty-five minute mark. I stand up from my chair. "I—I just wanted to—" Unable to form a coherent sentence, I take his mouth in a loving union, moving my lips slowly against his own. Ron seems slightly confused at first given the suddenness of my passion (and the setting in which I have decided to _become_ suddenly impassioned), but that doesn't stop him from deepening the kiss, moaning into my mouth and stroking my hair.

Once we pull apart, he looks at me, pleasantly breathless. "Blimey, Hermione. If this is the kind of treatment I get just from _being_ in a hospital, how will you treat me if I actually get sick?"

"Oh shush, you. I kiss you all the time, you ungrateful prat."

"But not like that."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't," he insists, chuckling. I roll my eyes. "Listen, love. Whatever this Healer bloke says, even if he tells me I've got a week left to live, just … just know that I love you, yeah?" He presses a kiss to my forehead.

"I love you too, Ron."

Twenty-seven and a half minutes exactly. The Healer returns. And whatever new parchments he's holding, he's examining them with intense eyes, occasionally murmuring "yes" and "right" to himself, and virtually ignoring our presence.

"Well?" I ask impatiently, "I'm right, aren't I? He has latent magic, doesn't he? Oh, Ron, the second we leave here I'm going to take you to Ollivander's to get you your very first wand. I'll teach you everything and within a year you'll be doing magic as well as the rest of us—"

"Miss Granger," Smethwyck interrupts me, and for the first time there's a distinct sternness in his tone, "as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, and the research you have gone through for the sake of Mr. Weasley, I must remind you that I am, in fact, the only one amongst the three of us certified to make any sort of formal diagnosis regarding his condition."

"Oh—oh yes, of course," I reply in a small voice, and I sink back in my chair and press my lips tightly together. "I'm sorry."

"No matter," he assures me. "But now, on to the state of Mr. Weasley's condition: might either of you be familiar with the concept of an aura?"

"Um …" I begin uncertainly. I had read about them, of course, but given the rather woolly nature of the definition, I had failed to commit the matter to any level of critical thought. Auras were something crazy Professor Trelawney would go on about; a flimsy concept I found little value in.

"Essentially," Smethwyck begins again, sensing my hesitation, "an aura is a sort of air that people naturally radiate. It's like a cloud that surrounds our very beings, and it influences the way we perceive the world and how others perceive us. Some of us have stronger auras than others—and, much like our personalities and temperaments, auras tend to be fixed. It's like a permanent disposition. I understand that is not much to go on in itself, but trust me, if there's one thing I've learned in all of my years of Healing, and in interacting with as many people as I have, it's that auras are very, _very_ real. My maternal grandmother was a Seer, you see, and in the course of her life she thoroughly learned me in perceiving people's auras.

"That being said, it is not unheard of for non-magical children born to at least one magical parent—Squibs, that is—to have a residual aura of magic surrounding them for the first few years of their life as a result of their parent's magic, and doubly so if both parents are magical. In fact, it is actually rather common. This is why most magical schools wait several years after a witch or wizard reproduces before adding their child to the acceptance list—they need to make sure that the child has had enough time to display their own genuine, inherent form of magic, and not just a faint magical aura surrounding them from their parents."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "And … what does this mean for Ron?"

"I conducted the standard procedure for testing for Extreme Latent Magic Disorder," says Smethwyck, clearing his throat. "It's actually rather simple, seeing that magical ability is present in the blood stream, and the utilization of a few select potions will be able to detect it. Mr. Weasley, I detected none in yours. However, there _is_ something I detected in you the moment I entered the room: an especially potent aura. If I may ask, how long have you had the pleasure of calling Miss Granger your girlfriend?"

"Um, about a year now," says Ron. "But I've been mad for her since we were thirteen." He looks at me fondly. "We love each other."

"And it very much shows in your aura, my dear boy. In fact, you are practically glowing," he chuckles. "But, as I previously stated, there is no trace of inherent magic present in your blood."

"So—so I don't have—?"

"No, Mr. Weasley," Smethwyck confirms. "You do not. Indeed, by all accounts you are in fact a Squib with an exceptionally strong residual magical aura from your parents. Normally this kind of aura fades after the first few years of life, but yours seems to have _regenerated_ itself, so to speak. No doubt this is at least partially due to the connection you've established with Miss Granger, but tell me, has there been any other significant emotional event occurring in your life in the past few months or so? The death of a family member? A crime occurring in or around your household? Or—and you _really_ must forgive me for asking with Miss Granger present, but it is relevant to the subject at hand—your first sexual experience, perhaps?"

"Oh … oh, no," Ron splutters, blushing furiously. "Nothing … nothing _quite_ like that, at least. I mean, there were a couple of things …" He looks at me with suddenly melancholy blue eyes, and I lick my lips and move my hand over my scar. "… but, I never thought what I was feeling could be strong enough to actually make anything _happen_."

"Emotions are a powerful thing, Mr. Weasley," says Smethwyck wisely. "One could even argue that they are a form of magic in itself. Nevertheless, I am afraid I cannot diagnose you with any form of a delayed magic condition, because the evidence of it is simply not present in your system. In terms of the prognosis for these apparent magical happens due to your strong aura, I expect they will calm down in time, as your emotions begin to settle from whatever aforementioned events you are too shy to detail to me." He smiles toothily, noticing Ron's intensifying blush. "Fear not, young man, I was once a teenage boy too, as long ago as that may have been. And might I say, it was a pleasure meeting the both of you."

Hippocrates Smethwyck shakes our hands goodbye before wishing us a long and prosperous future, and Ron doesn't say anything during the entire journey back to the Burrow.


	30. Chapter 30

**Part IV** **—** **The End**

* * *

 **Chapter XXX**

 _Stupid._ That's the only word that comes to mind. _Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid._ Although, considering my inclination toward more sophisticated diction, I will substitute with the following synonyms: _Vacuous. Simple. Obtuse. Doltish._ Either way, they all describe me.

When I sneak up to Ron's room after dinner (note that "sneak" is used tentatively, seeing that Ginny has apparently always been aware of my nocturnal voyages to her brother's bedroom; still, I am careful not to wake any other members of the Weasley household), he's stretched out on top of his bed holding up the newest _Seeker Weekly_ , and—oh _gods_ —he's shirtless, and when he sees me he smiles in that wonderfully bright way that only Ronald Weasley smiles.

"Oi, remember this?" he asks. He tosses aside the magazine and holds up a dark hair tie—the same one he had pulled off of my plaited mane during our passionate encounter at my house just a few days earlier. "I do. Now that I think of it, isn't this the same one that I used when I did your hair the first summer you spent here?"

"I highly doubt that, Ronald," I state, closing the door and curling up next to him. "Those things all look the same, and I go through them so fast."

"Doesn't matter, I'm keeping this one." He grins as he rolls it onto his wrist and kisses the top of my head. "It reminds me of you."

"Mmm," I sigh, running my fingers along that lovely trail of light ginger abdominal hair. "Ron, please stop this."

"Stop what?"

"Pretending like you're not mad at me." I look up at him, dewy-eyed. "You must be absolutely furious with me. I wouldn't blame you. How could I be so _stupid?_ —dragging you down there with the most minimal evidence. I should have looked into it deeper—I should have looked up the methods of testing it—I should have—"

" _Hermione_ ," he interrupts me, "I'm not mad at you. I swear."

"You're—you're not?"

"No," he answers, shrugging. "I knew it was rubbish the minute you brought it up. I just did. No offense to that big brain of yours, love—on _any_ other subject I would have believed you right away, but … I know myself well enough. And I knew I didn't have what you were talking about. I mean … when those things happened—the fire and when Harry and Ginny spilled their drinks, and when Fred got smacked with his own broom—I _do_ remember feeling emotional, but … it didn't feel like something I could control—the magic, I mean. I dunno. I only went to the hospital to satisfy you."

"Ron … why _did_ you make Fred's broom hit him in the face?"

"It must have been the way he was talking after our Quidditch game," Ron explains, looking suddenly embarrassed. "We originally agreed whoever won would get a Galleon, but Fred decided to act like a tosser and say he'd be willing to substitute it with a kiss from you." His lips form a hard line. "He was joking, obviously. He was just trying to get on my nerves, but—don't look at me like that! I couldn't help it!" he adds, noticing my glare. "We've already established that I'm a jealous prat, haven't we?"

Although he speaks with his usual humor, I detect the slightest trace of sorrow present in his eyes, and he bites his lip and shifts beneath me.

"But … something else is bothering you about all of this, isn't it?"

He sighs: "Well … I dunno, Hermione. It's just, when you came to me with that bloody book, you seemed so— _excited_. Like you were thrilled at the idea that I could do magic; that I was a wizard all this time. I dunno … I guess it made me a little sad at first. Especially since you're one of the first people I've ever truly felt comfortable with about being a Squib … yeah, it made me kind of sad, love."

By this time, I've already clasped my hand over my mouth, the familiar sting of warm droplets forming in my eyes. I gasp lightly, pressing both of my palms to my thumping heart. "Oh, Ron!" I cry softly. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for it to seem like that. I—I just thought I had found an explanation to the strange things that had been going on!"

"I wouldn't expect any less from the great Hermione Granger. And I reckon in the end you did the right thing by making me go see a Healer, because now we have the answer to what was going on, don't we? I have a strong aura—whatever the hell that means." He smirks. "You bring out the magic in me even when I don't have any magic. You're _that_ amazing, you are."

"Please, love. Don't joke about this when I hurt your feelings." I cup his face, sniffling back some tears. "Let me assure you right here and now, Ronald Weasley, that I love you completely and irrevocably; magic or no magic."

"And you really mean that?" he asks uncertainly. "You don't want a wizard-Ron? Even if I was otherwise exactly the same as I am now?"

"You've asked me that before," I mutter sadly. "And it broke my heart."

"I know," he sighs again. "But I'd be lying if I said I don't sometimes think about how things are going to be in the future, when it comes to you and me, at least. I reckon there's still a part of me that's afraid some brilliant bloke at the Ministry is going to fancy you and you'll realize how much better you can do. Or hell, you may even realize how better off you'd be with Krum. But, then, I look at you." Bringing his hand up to my reddened face, he tenderly flicks away the moisture beneath my eyes, and then moves to tuck one of my numerous untamed curls behind my ear. "And I see the way you look back at me, and I'm able to tell that part of me to shut the bloody hell up."

"Language, Ronald."

"Sorry, _Mum_ ," Ron chuckles. "Spend the night with me?"

"Of course."

We settle beneath his orange covers. He turns off the light, and as my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness I blindly reach out to touch him, cooing as I make contact with his delightfully bare chest. He brings me closer, wrapping those wonderfully strong arms around my tiny body and rubbing up and down my back. He moves to kiss my scar, and I whimper as he then nuzzles the crook of my neck and hums contently, sending vibrations through my flushed flesh.

"I'm sorry," I say again, my heart still thumping with guilt and shame.

"Don't apologize. You were only trying to help me. And besides," he says, his tone now lilting with amusement, "one good thing did come out of today."

"What's that?"'

"Proof that Hermione Granger _can_ be wrong about something."

"You're such a prat, Ronald Weasley," I reply, rolling my eyes. "An absolutely impossible prat."

"Always, love," he laughs, and turns his face to my cheek to kiss me. "Always."

* * *

The day before graduation is a special kind of saddening—like the last gulp of a cup of hot chocolate, the epilogue of a beloved novel, or the final kiss I shared with Ron before I had to board the train to return to Hogwarts following the Easter holiday. Perfect but limited. Doomed not to last.

I look around my room: everything is packed except for my nightwear, a few toiletries, and my robes for the following day—my _graduation_ robes. Oh my goodness. In his letters, Ron has promised to sit in the front and make the most noise when my name is called to receive my certificate. I don't object to that. Then he tested me by saying he would in fact run up on stage and snog me senseless in front of everyone, including both sets of our parents. _That_ I object to.

I kiss Crookshanks on the top of his head before turning to go downstairs to meet Harry and Ginny for dinner—and for Harry and I, it is to be our last evening meal at Hogwarts. However, just as I'm about to reach for the door, I'm greeted by a firm series of knocks from the other side.

"Um, who is it?"

In a low, silken voice, my unexpected visitor answers: "It's Professor Dumbledore, Miss Granger. I was hoping to have a word with you before dinner."

"Oh!—um—er—"

Flustered, I smooth out the front of my robes and yank open the door, and Albus Dumbledore is indeed standing there in all of his wise and wonderful Dumbledore-ness: tall, silver-haired and nearly bone-thin, yet glowing with health and a sort of lively energy that almost contradicts his age.

"May I come in?" he asks.

"Of course, sir!" I chirp, and step aside as he flows in, a trail of grey, star-patterned robes following him. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, how did you manage to get up here? Isn't there a spell that prevents males from entering the female-occupied part of the tower?"

"Yes, well, being me has its privileges."

"Oh, yes, of course," I say quickly, blushing. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Please, Miss Granger," Dumbledore chuckles lightly, leaving the door slightly ajar. "If anything, the pleasure is mine." He crosses over to the armchair where Crookshanks sits, and pets his orange back. "How have your classes been this term? Your final exams?"

"Oh—it was good. Excellent, Professor."

"And your activities outside of the classroom?" he inquires with raised white brows.

"Sir?"

"Well, in all the years you've been here I've noticed you spend a great deal of time with Mr. Potter. So, naturally, I can't help but wonder—"

"Harry?" I say, reddening, "Harry—oh, no. I mean, Harry is _brilliant_ , obviously, and he's one of my best friends, but it's never been like that. He's been with my friend Ginny Weasley for a while now." I look down at my feet, biting my lower lip as I grin. "And I'm with one of her brothers, actually."

"Forgive me, I've never been particularly gifted in accurately assessing the social lives of my students," says Dumbledore, "and you must also forgive my unexpected visit. But I have pondered on this issue for too long."

"And what issue would that be, sir?"

He smiles in a warm and comforting way, like a grandfather. "Miss Granger, do you know how many books have been written about me?"

I blink rapidly in confusion. "Um … sir?"

"Not to sound pompous, of course," the old man laughs. "But the number is well over one hundred. Yes, my duel with Gellert Grindelwald … my alchemist achievements alongside Nicolas Flamel … my role in helping defeat Lord Voldemort, along with many others, of course … my discovery of the twelve uses for dragon's blood—or four uses, if you ask a certain wizard by the name of Ivor Dillonsby," he adds with a humorous note, "—yes, they've all been documented and detailed by numerous authors throughout the years. But, Miss Granger, might you have any idea what they've all failed to mention, amongst those many volumes about my life and accomplishments?"

"I … I don't know, sir," I say honestly, and the words sound unpleasantly foreign on my lips.

Smiling still, Dumbledore takes the liberty of collecting Crookshanks into his arms and taking his place in the armchair. The cat purrs and closes his eyes as the man gently pats his head.

"The one thing they've failed to mention, Miss Granger, is that I am human. And, as any human being is, I am susceptible to lapses in judgment—to making mistakes." He sighs and regards me with a melancholy curve of his thin lips. "You know, when I first decided to appoint Mr. Draco Malfoy to Head Boy for this school year, it came as a bit of a surprise to the Head of Houses, as I'm sure it did to you as well," he says knowingly. "Not that Mr. Malfoy had anything particularly going _against_ him as an individual, at least not on his records, but given the history of his family … well, that's an entirely different matter. There were several other young men I considered for the title; young men of good academic and behavioral standing too—yes, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, Mr. Longbottom, even Mr. Potter—but, I ultimately decided that it was about time Mr. Malfoy stop living in the shadow of his family's past actions."

I fidget uncomfortably as I stand, briefly looking down at the scar that I've only just begun to come to terms with. "Professor, please …"

"However, after the events of this year, it's become obvious that I should have given the position to someone else—someone who doesn't cower from the results of their own actions; who doesn't shy away from doing the right thing." At this point, Dumbledore gently sets Crookshanks aside and rises, approaching me slowly. "To say I was disturbed when I was first made aware of what Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Crabbe, and Mr. Goyle had done to you would be an understatement. A visit from Ministry officials about the actions of your students is something no Headmaster desires … but even if time in Azkaban was not deemed appropriate for Mr. Malfoy's role in your attack, I ensured that he was disciplined in other ways—first and foremost being the revocation of his badge."

I nod in understanding, remembering my last confrontation with Draco, in which he had accidentally let slip a detail about having to help the house-elves in the kitchens. To my surprise, Dumbledore actually extends a wrinkled, aged hand to my nearest shoulder, squeezing it as his brilliant blue eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.

"But I've neglected discussing the matter with you directly for far too long—and in doing so I've also neglected expressing, Miss Granger, how exceedingly sorry I am for what happened to you. I understand if it's not something you wish to talk about in detail—"

"Please, sir," I say, "it's something I'm learning to live with. I've got great friends. I couldn't have gone through the trial and everything that came after without them. And—and my boyfriend, Ron Weasley—he's honestly the most wonderful person I've ever met. He was the one who gave me the courage to come forward." I laugh a little. "I just know that, had he gone to Hogwarts, he would have been in Gryffindor too."

"I'm glad you have such people in your life, young lady," says Dumbledore.

"Thank you, sir." My eyes flicker down once more to the faded slur on my arm. "He says I should think of it like a badge of courage. Like it's something that shows how strong I am; how much I'm capable of. I don't know if I'm _quite_ there yet—I do still feel rather sad about it every now and then, but …" I trail off, weakly smiling at my Headmaster.

"I'm afraid, Miss Granger," he begins, "that there will always be people who hold prejudice against those of a supposed 'lesser' blood status—perhaps some not as extremely as others, but it is one of the many follies of man. However, you mustn't dwell on it—not for a single precious moment of your life. I've seen you accomplish more at this school in one year than legacies and generations of pureblood families combined. No, don't dwell on it for a _second_ , Miss Granger. I expect extraordinary things from you in the future—whatever you choose to do." Dumbledore removes his hand from my shoulder and holds it out to me. "It has been an honor serving as your Headmaster."

I look down at his hand, but, as I reach out to shake it, I find myself suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, and instead take the elderly man in a hug, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and feeling the side of my face tickled by his long and silver beard. It feels pleasantly strange, if not the slightest bit inappropriate—I've never hugged a professor before—but Dumbledore only responds with a small hum and pats my upper back.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," I sniffle. "It's been an honor being your student too."


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter XXXI**

I ashamedly confess to having been negligent in paying proper attention to my calendar during the final month of term—at least by my standards. I simply didn't want to confront the undeniable future; the emerging reality of my last days at my beloved school. However, even with this admission at the forefront of my consideration, mind you, I'm _sure_ I would have noticed today's date being marked as "Unexpectedly Visit Hermione Day"—because apparently, that's what it was. As it goes: after dinner (my _final_ dinner at Hogwarts—I sniffle back a threatening tear) I give Harry and Ginny drawn-out goodnights before returning to my room. I'm still in a bit of a pleasant haze from my talk with Dumbledore only a few hours earlier, and I smile and hum to myself as I bathe and slip into a crisp, freshly laundered set of nightwear. Crookshanks purrs in anticipation of a pleasant night's sleep as I fold back the sheets of my bed, but then, the faintest knock is detected from my door, followed by a distinct chirp, oozing with the feminine bubbliness that I've only encountered in one person my entire life: _"Her-my-oh-knee."_

I gulp.

"Uh—Lavender?" I call back, rising unsurely to my bare feet.

"Yes, can I talk to you?"

"Erm—sure. Hold on." Frowning, I step to the door and open it, indeed confirming the presence of Miss Boyfriend-Stealer Herself— _enough of that, Hermione,_ I inwardly scold myself. _She technically never did anything wrong. You and Ron were not officially anything when she entered the picture. That's all in the past now. And besides, you still got the title of being Ron's First Kiss_ —wearing a revoltingly pink bunny-patterned night dress, with her long hair towered in a messy bun on the top of her head. "Um—"

"Is this yours?" she asks before I can inquire as to the purpose of her unexpected visitation. She holds up a single pale purple sock (so pale and purple that it would even be appropriate to label it _lavender_ , I think with a mental cringe).

"No," I answer, shaking my head. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh, well—you know, Parvati and I were just doing some last-minute packing, and I found this near your old bed. I thought you might have left it behind from when you still shared a room with us." She looks down at the lonely article, and then chuckles in apparent embarrassment: "I—I actually think this is _my_ sock, now that I'm really looking at it. Funny, you'd think I'd know my own sock—especially when it's the same color as my name! But I guess it's not unfathomable that I might have accidentally pushed it near your bed, since our beds _were_ right next to each other." Giggling some more, she plays awkwardly with the sock, and rolls back and forth on the balls of her dainty manicured feet. "Well—erm, since I'm already here, I thought I'd tell you … um, Seamus and I are talking again!"

"Seamus Finnigan? You went to the Yule Ball with him, right?" I ask with a raised brow, leaning against the frame of the door.

"Yeah. Actually, he's sort of my boyfriend now," she says, biting her lip. "And … well, I was just thinking … I know we've never really been friends, Hermione … but, you know, I hope that all the hullabaloo that happened between us last year hasn't affected your opinion of me in the long-run."

"Oh …" I reply, dumbfounded. "Oh, Lavender—"

"And I'm sorry about that time I yelled at you in the Hog's Head Inn and accused you of only going after 'special boys,'" she says quickly, as if rattling off a long and depraved confession to a spiritual leader. "I've realized you can't always trust what you read in papers—especially if it's written by Rita Skeeter. She did a so-called 'report' on my daddy's business a few months ago and accused him of being 'suspiciously friendly' with one of his female employees!" she says, scowling. "But that's not of much relevance to this matter anyway, I guess."

"Um … wow," I begin slowly, still unsure of how to respond. My expression softens and I address her in a small voice: "Well … thanks, Lavender. I appreciate it. And … and I'm sorry, too, for the way I acted during your relationship with Ron. It wasn't appropriate in the slightest. Ron and I weren't anything official at the time—it's not like I had any _right_ to him. Even if I was jealous, it wasn't right of me to behave the way I did."

"To be completely honest with you, Hermione, in a way I was jealous of _you_ even when _I_ was with Ron. He talked about you _all_ the time. Except when we were snogging, obviously. I mean, I admit Ron and I didn't do a whole lot of talking to begin with, because we were, you know, snogging," she explains with an awkward grin, "but—yeah, whenever we _did_ talk, you somehow always made it into the conversation. I don't even think he realized how much he talked about you. It got quite annoying, honestly." She sighs deeply, stretches her arms before plopping them back down on her sides, and regards me with a contented upward turn of her pink, glossy mouth. "But that's all over now. I think Seamus and I communicate a lot better than Ron and I ever did, and I just wanted to say ... I wish you both the best. Um, no hard feelings?"

"No hard feelings," I echo, smiling back at her, and doing so surprisingly without strain.

And then, to my shock—my absolutely incredulous, jaw-dropping, impossible shock—Lavender Brown actually holds out her arms in a silent, smiling invitation. I'm rooted to the spot, and she takes the liberty of in fact wrapping herself around my shoulders, patting me thrice on the back. I mirror her actions, and it's an awkward and brief embrace that nearly leaves me with a headache as a result of the overwhelming scent of her flowery shampoo, body lotion, and perfume.

"Well, then," she says cheerfully, looking rather pleased with herself, "I'll see you tomorrow, Head Girl."

"I'll see you tomorrow too."

She slowly steps back, beaming genuinely. "It was nice knowing you, Hermione Granger."

"It was nice knowing you too, Lavender Brown," I tell her with a strangely pleasant puzzlement, and the beautiful blonde smiles at me one last time before crossing over to her own dormitory, the lavender sock still in her hand.

* * *

It's amazing—absolutely, exquisitely, and unimaginably amazing: the feeling of the black leather-encased diploma in my hands. I open it again and run my hand delicately along the glossy parchment, where my name— _my name_ , Hermione Jean Granger—is confirmed to have met the requirements necessary to graduate from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Ron is true to his word about making his presence known when my name is called, shouting "that's my girlfriend!" as I walk across the erected stage in the Great Hall, blushing furiously with bittersweet tears streaming lightly down my cheeks as I receive my diploma and shake hands with Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and the other Head of Houses.

After the ceremony, we (the graduates) board the enchanted boats to take us across the Black Lake—a poetically sentimental throwback to our first arrival at Hogwarts seven years earlier. I sit next to Harry, who wraps his arm around my shoulders and mutters an affectionate "love you, sis." The boats are routed to drop us off at Hogsmeade Station, but we all know that no one has the intention of going home right away.

The graduates scatter amongst the village, with a large portion of them concentrating in the Three Broomsticks for music, dancing, and more rounds of butterbeer than would normally be appropriate. But, upon finding Ron in the crowd, the two of us know exactly where to go for some much needed alone time. The Weasleys have been nice enough to ensure my parents (and Crookshanks) get home safely, and I've already promised to spend the entire following day celebrating with Mum and Dad in exchange for a relatively parent-free Grad Night tonight.

The moment Ron and I are in the privacy of Our Place, my boyfriend pulls me into a crushing embrace, kissing me sloppily over every inch of my face, with words of affection and encouragement—"I'm so bloody proud of you, Hermione", "I love you so much", "So, _so_ proud of you, love"—spoken hastily as we collapse onto the sofa in more heated snogging. Eventually we separate for the mere sake of catching our breath, only to resume our passionate ministrations a few minutes later in our usual bedroom upstairs. Given the circumstances, I find Ron's affection especially endearing, and I flutter my eyes shut and allow myself to become lost in every little movement, every tender graze of his lips across the flushed skin of my face, lips, neck, and collarbone. Marking me. Loving me. I whimper a little loudly as Ron continues to move deftly above me, and he removes his lips from my own and looks down at me with concern.

"All right?" he asks.

"Uhm hmm." Sighing, I turn my face in the direction of the nearest wall, allowing my eyes to pass across that lovely graffiti; the innocent remains of the Shrieking Shack's former occupants: _Lola + Davey. Forever in love. 1972._ "Do you think they're still in love?"

"Who?"

"Them," I say, motioning to the wall. "Lola and Davey. Do you think they're still in love?"

Chuckling, Ron rolls to my side and addresses the matter with a shrug.

"Bit of a strange thing to think about, innit?"

"Is it really?" I ask playfully. "I mean, think about it! What if they were true to their word? What if they ran off and got married? It does say _forever_ , after all."

"You've really thought _that much_ about a scribbling on a wall, have you?"

"You know me." I look at him, my amused grin softening with tenderness as I press my index finger to the tip of his long nose, pressing firmly before leaning forward and kissing the same spot.

"That's my nose, love."

"I'm acutely aware of that."

"Well, I'd much rather you kiss my lips."

"Honestly Ronald, do you possess even a _teaspoon_ worth of patience?"

"Sure I do!" he asserts. "I waited to be with you since we were thirteen, didn't I?"

"You wouldn't have had to wait that long if you'd just told me how you felt earlier."

"I could say the same thing to you."

"Fair enough."

I release a slow breath of air as my head finds his chest; I close my eyes again and inhale his pleasantly familiar scent. "It's saddening, Ron. Don't you realize that after tonight we won't have any excuse to come back here? It won't be Our Place anymore. It'll just be an old, abandoned, boarded-up and supposedly haunted house again."

"I know … I'm going to miss having our own little space too—even if was never _really_ ours to begin with. But where this ends, everything else begins, yeah? Who knows," Ron muses with an air of humor, "maybe one of our kids will come here some day with one of their friends and—actually, never mind," he quickly adds, "considering ninety-nine percent of what we did here is snog, I'd rather they not continue our legacy."

"You're not going to be one of those overprotective fathers, are you?"

"You know me," he replies matter-of-factly, echoing my earlier sentiment. I roll my eyes.

Then, suddenly inspired by his words, I rise to my feet and take out my wand, aiming it at a spot on the wall next to the remnant of the previous couple. Ron sits up and stares at me curiously.

"And what exactly are you up to now?"

"Leaving our legacy," I answer, and, upon muttering the necessary incantation, watch with delight as my wand produces a clear and pretty marking next to that of our predecessors:

 _Ron + Hermione. Until the very end. 1998._


End file.
